


A Volatile Solution

by ManicMoose



Series: The Scientific Method [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Abortion, Fake Science, Gender Issues, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, POV Sherlock Holmes, References to Miscarriage, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13059039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: Three months after their ill-considered shared heat, John and Sherlock fumble their way through the unexpected situation they find themselves in, and come to terms with their feelings for one another and the newly introduced third party in their partnership.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this one certainly took a lot longer to get out than I'd intended. The delay started off with some regular old writers block- but then my little old dog grew very ill, recovered for a short while and then suddenly relapsed and passed away. I'm one of those people who's pets are pretty much their kids, so it's been a really rough go. But my little man always kept me company while I wrote, and I like to think he'd have been heartily entertained if he understood what I was writing, so now that I've had some time, it's only right that I forge on ahead. Thank you to everyone who left me such lovely comments during my absence- I appreciated them more than you know! And thank you as always to my amazing beta, Miss_Communication, who always materializes exactly when I'm in need- I'm so lucky to have found her!
> 
> This won't make all that much sense at first without having read [Scientific Rigour](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10074368) and [Amalgamation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10822128/chapters/24012810) first for context, though I guess it will make plenty of sense on its own as it goes on. 
> 
> Happy Reading!

Sherlock wakes up the morning after his impromptu fireside confession feeling energized and rejuvenated. There's an ease to everything that he hasn't felt since staring down at the first positive pregnancy test in the bathroom at Baker Street. He feels well and truly _himself_ again, and thanks to this rediscovered confidence, the case wraps up at a breakneck speed from there on out.

Admittedly, it _is_ perhaps somewhat questionable for him to experiment on John without his consent. But, in his own defense, he’d ensured that John was perfectly safe the entire time. And in any case, he hadn't _actually_ been the one to drug John; he’d merely _thought_ that he had.

John, of course, doesn't quite agree with that sentiment when it accidentally comes out over breakfast the following morning, but he moves on from it surprisingly quickly. Sherlock can hardly believe his luck... until it rapidly becomes apparent that John’s attention is merely far more fixated on the newly introduced third party in their partnership.

“We'll need to get you into the clinic for scans and a check up,” John casually tacks the announcement onto the tail end of his playful ribbing of Sherlock having been wrong about the sugar. “I'm assuming you haven't had any prenatal care yet,” he adds as he takes a cautious sip of his coffee.

Sherlock chokes mildly on his own drink at the unexpected change of subjects, and briefly considers lying.

“No,” he grudgingly admits.

John nods with a complete lack of surprise and tucks back into his breakfast as he continues. “I'll give Sarah a call; see if she can't slip us in sometime in the next few days.”

“I hardly think that— ” Sherlock baulks, drawing in his chin like a bashful turtle.

“No,” John interrupts before he can protest further. “You can’t just—” He sighs heavily and sets aside his cutlery, then wipes his mouth lingeringly with a napkin as if buying time. “Look, Sherlock,” he finally continues, and a prickle anxiety makes its way up Sherlock’s spine. John looks up and meets his eyes with a determined expression. “Last night was... well, a bit of a whirlwind really. We didn’t really discuss things properly; like we should have done.”

“What is there to discuss?” Sherlock straightens in his chair, his heart speeding up to an uncomfortable gallop within his chest. Is John reconsidering his acceptance of the situation already? He _can’t_ be.

“Now, you’re hardly in your dotage, but you're still much older than the _average_  omega experiencing their first pregnancy. And you don't exactly have the best track record for looking after your health.”

“I'm perf— ” Sherlock cuts himself off at the hard look John shoots across the table.

“This is _serious_ , Sherlock. If you want to do this, we'll do it. But we're doing it right. You can’t keep going on the way you’ve always done and not expect it to have a seriously detrimental effect on the baby’s development.” John purses his lips and set his jaw mulishly, as if readying for a fight. “We need to establish some ground rules.”

“Oh,” Sherlock releases a quiet breath of relief. “Ground rules are… acceptable.” He can hardly argue against John looking after the baby’s health and wellbeing after all. “What do you have in mind?”

“First off, you _do_ need to get checked out by a doctor. The full gamut. At your age, there _is_ an increased chance of complications. If there’s something wrong, it’s better to know about it straight away.”

“Fine.”

“And your diet is certainly in need of improvement. You can’t just carry on subsisting on little more than tea and cigarettes. You have to start eating regular meals, taking prenatal vitamins. And no more nicotine patches!”

“You _know_ I’ve given up smoking!” Sherlock protests. “I’ve been eating whatever food you insistently foist upon me, _and —_ while I’d argue that the studies on the effect of caffeine during pregnancy are really _quite_ conflicting — I’ve still been limiting my caffeine intake _substantially._ This,” he lifts his mug pointedly and spits the words across the table like a curse, “is _decaffeinated._ ”

“That’s all great,” John acknowledges. “Fantastic, really. You’ve been doing brilliant. But you’ll need to keep it up. This isn't something you can give up as a lark when it gets tedious; it’s a _commitment._ The biggest commitment there is, really. It means taking extra precautions in the Work, _sleeping_ every night, _and_ making sure to eat even if I’m not around to make you.” He points an accusatory finger and flattens his mouth. “ _Even_ if there’s a case on. None of that nonsense about digestion slowing you down — the baby needs all the nutrients it can get.”

A _lark?_

How on _earth_ would he ever consider growing a human being inside himself — with all its associated indignities and discomforts — a lark? Utterly exhausting, perhaps. _Tedious_ , absolutely. But hardly an amusing or trivial escapade.

 _Really._ It’s possibly the most _Alpha_ thing that John’s ever said.

 _But—_ if John’s only stipulations are to be the most basic of necessities for ensuring the optimal development of their child, far be it for him to complain.

“That’s everything?” He confirms.

“Yeah.”

“Very well,” Sherlock angles his head in acquiescence, and is immediately rewarded with a brilliant smile.

“Yeah?” John beams across the table at him elatedly.

“Yes,” Sherlock pointedly picks up his fork and pulls his plate closer with a slight wrinkle of his nose.

“That’s all sorted then,” John reaches for his cutlery and happily tucks back into his meal. “I’ll call Sarah right after we finish.”

Sherlock hums agreeably and resumes poking at his own breakfast with a good degree less enthusiasm. He ruminates on the one glaring issue he has with John’s plans, and for the first time considers the merit of simply being honest with John about it. It’s seemed to be… surprisingly less disastrous than expected thus far. He carefully swallows his mouthful of egg and quickly speaks before he can think better of it.

“I... I had hoped to keep things from Mycroft for a short while yet. At least until the second trimester.”

John freezes and chokes on his coffee mid-sip.

“Mycroft,” he wheezes as the ensuing coughing fit dies down. “He’s your Alpha Familiae.”

“Yes, thank you John. I’m well aware of that,” Sherlock feigns ignorance of John’s obviously imminent panic. His lips twitch as he struggles to maintain a neutral expression. _“And?”_

“ _And_ I’ve gotten the Omega dependens of the bloody _British Government_ up the duff!” John whisper-shouts with more than a touch of hysteria. “Oh christ,” he leans forward, clutching white-knuckled at the lip of the table, and hisses: “Do you think he’ll have me _killed?_ ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock offers an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You didn’t make a fuss about him when you were busy _making_ the baby, so it seems a bit ridiculous to start now.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think that there would _be_ a baby,” John counters, “so I was assuming he’d never find out!”

“Mycroft finds out about _everything_ ,” Sherlock drawls flippantly. “ _Eventually_ at least.” He sips at his tea and frowns, mulling over whether or not to share his latest discovery on the very subject. “That being said,” he clears his throat delicately, “it’s recently come to my attention that he perhaps never _did_ find out about Victor and I, as I’d always assumed. So when we _do_ tell him... it may come as somewhat more of a shock to him than it would have otherwise.”

John blinks back at him for a beat, slow and measured, as if digesting the information.

“Oh great. That’s great,” he grouses, “so I get to be the lucky sod to take the blame for that as well then.” He lifts his hastily discarded mug to take a deep, bracing swig, as if it contains something markedly stronger than coffee. “Well, never mind then; now I _know_ he’s going to have me killed.”

Sherlock snorts. “It’ll be _fine._ You’re blowing it entirely out of proportion.”

“Out of proportion? Have you _met_ Mycroft?” John’s bark of laughter has a distinct edge of disbelief to it. “When we first met, he _kidnapped me—_ just to introduce himself! And in case you’ve forgotten, _I_ distinctly recall you saying he wouldn’t approve of your being sexually active outside of a bond. The words _‘as bad as cocaine’_ come to mind.”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock grimaces. In light of the current situation, he wishes he’d held his tongue a tad bit more in the sanctum of his bedroom. Ah, well, no help for it now. Hindsight is, as always, twenty-twenty. “But— “

“But what?” John snaps testily. “I have a strong suspicion that I don’t want to know how the man whos favoured method of _introduction_ is kidnapping handles offences to his honour!” Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but John barrels on, pointing an accusatory finger at him and cutting him off before he can speak. “And before you even _try_ to suggest it— we can’t very well keep it from him! Nobody with eyes and a nose is going to miss it before long; much less _Mycroft._ ”

“Well his eyes and nose are hardly going to do him any good if I ensure he doesn’t have an opportunity to use them, now are they?” Sherlock hisses impatiently back.

When John merely raises his eyebrows expectantly, and no further argument seems to be immediately forthcoming, he elaborates. “I assure you, I _have_ given consideration to ensuring your safety— I have no illusions about my brother and the... unpleasant actions he could take. I’d planned to avoid anything that might attract his attention before the second trimester, as that is when the risk of losing the child drops significantly. Doing away with you at that point would no longer carry any guarantee of ‘solving’ the issue and _could_ , in fact, potentially serve to tarnish _his_ reputation. Keeping you visibly on hand would be far more advisable.”

“Wait, what?” John’s brow furrows together, and he frowns in the exact manner he always does whenever he doesn’t follow.

“A pregnant Omega dependens and the suspicious absence of an obvious sire? Mycroft would never risk _those_ sort of rumours.”

John’s look of confusion deepens.

“Yeah, now you've _definitely_ lost me.”

“It's obvious John! The sire _may_ have been unceremoniously done away with at the earliest opportunity, but that’s _far_ too trite; people prefer their gossip as salacious as possible. Inevitably, wagging tongues would begin to suggest something _substantially_ worse — that the sire isn't absent at all.”

Sherlock looks up from his breakfast, expecting to see the light of understanding in John’s eyes, but instead finds his blogger staring at him blankly.

“Think of the Cavendish case John!” Sherlock casts his eyes upward in exasperation. “Either the sire is a member of the household staff — _ghastly,_ but incredibly unlikely, given the stringent hiring criteria of such staff — _or_ they’re one of the omega’s own family members. Specifically, Mycroft himself in my case.” He pauses to chew thoughtfully on another forkful of egg while a look of horror dawns across John’s features. “Naturally, neither scenario would reflects very glowingly on him as an Alpha Familiae.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, scrunching his face in disgust and giving a small shake of his head. _“I’d_ say,”

“You, however, are a respectable unbonded alpha doctor; entirely unrelated and easily presented as being in Mycroft’s employ. As I mentioned last night _—_ if the child is an alpha, it will automatically become his heir. With that in mind, he can pass off my pregnancy as a deliberate tactical move on his part.

“A… tactical move?”

Again, the frown.

One can only hope that their offspring will be more Holmes than Watson in terms of mental acuity.

“Oh yes. Ensuring the continuity of the family name, given the dangerous nature of his position, and his lack of a bondmate in his advancing age,“ Sherlock swirls his free hand about in an encompassing gesture, “All that rot. _Per alpha vicarius.”_

“Alpha vicarius?” John wrinkles his nose. “ _That_ antiquated practice? It’s a bit repulsive isn’t it?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hums agreeably as he lifts his mug, smirking as he finishes the last dregs of his tea. “ _Antiquated_ and _repulsive_ are perfect adjectives to describe Mycroft, wouldn’t you say? And it's hardly worse than suspicions of incest.”

“So, let me get this straight— ” John ventures warily, ” _you_ think that if we wait to tell him, Mycroft will pretend that he hired me to…” he trails off, a rather becoming tinge of pink creeping up his neck and into is cheeks.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock confirms. “I’m sure that all his old cronies will positively fall over themselves to pat him on the back, and congratulate him on a job well done, if he does. Bringing his unruly Omega dependens to heel for the good of the family name, _and_ arranging for an heir — all at once? Ingenious of him.”

“I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that,” John objects. “It sounds a bit… well… sordid.”

“Rest assured John, in this day and age, no one is going to assume that Mycroft tied me to the bedposts and let you have your way with me. He’s not _that_ antiquated. Everyone is well aware that this,” he angles his fork to point toward his abdomen, “is perfectly achievable via clinical means if I weren't receptive to... the more traditional method.” He peers up through his lashes at John as he pushes his food about his plate, hesitating for a moment before shyly adding suggestion. “Though given how well we get on, I expect most will simply presume Mycroft made an effort to procure an alpha I would find agreeable.”

That startles a laugh out of John, and the way his cheeks go ruddy sends a small thrill through Sherlock’s core.

“Oh? Is that how you plan to sell it then — me, your toy-boy?” He chuckles in self-deprecating disbelief. “Might have trouble convincing anyone then. At the very least, you lot could definitely afford something a bit prettier.”

“Nonsense John. As Mrs. Hudson’s favourite telly programmes seem quite insistent upon; everyone knows posh omegas _do_ go in for a bit of rough.”

Sherlock manages to keep a straight face just long enough for John to burst into laughter, before he simply dissolves into giggles himself.

Once they’ve calmed themselves, John rises from the table to go refill their mugs, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

“Alright,” he announces upon his return, setting the two steaming mugs down on the table top. “But we _are_ going to have to tell him. Sooner rather than later, considering how far you are along.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock readily agrees as he blows on his drink to cool it. “But I’d prefer to tell him myself, rather than via a medical report appearing on his desktop.”

“Yeah, okay,” John nods, “that’s fair. And if I can coax Sarah into keeping the results out of the system for the time being — buy us a bit of time?”

“Then, Dr. Watson, I believe you have yourself a deal.”

 

* * *

 

And so they return to Baker Street and life settles in to a new sort of normal.

It’s surprisingly… _nice_. He no longer has to make any attempt to conceal his bouts of morning sickness and, in fact, John materializes in the loo more often than not; stroking Sherlock’s back soothingly as he clings to the porcelain, trembling between heaves. And when the retching blessedly _does_ subside, glasses of cool water, digestives, and delightfully soothing ginger candies seem to appear in John’s hands as if from thin air.

And he’d thought that John would hare off the moment he found out.

Absolutely ridiculous of him in hindsight; John Watson is, after all, a doctor and caregiver first and foremost. Clearly the pregnancy hormones have been interfering with his reasoning.

All in all, it’s quite the change from lonely mornings shivering on the bathroom floor, trying to suppress or disguise his condition as much as possible. Within a matter of days he honestly doesn’t know how he ever did without.

In fact, his most pressing concern now is just how quickly he’s getting _used_ to it.

The omega inside of him is positively in _rapture_ over being so caringly attended to by its alpha. Everytime John’s small, warm hand rubs along the knobs of his spine, or reaches out to steady his elbow as he rises on shaky legs from the floor, a warm rush of adoration races through Sherlock’s veins. It’s even worse when John gives a pleased little smile at the sight of Sherlock diligently tucking into a meal, or yawning and lying down for an afternoon kip on the sofa. A bubble of omega gratification instinctively swells inside his chest over having pleased his alpha, only to just as swiftly burst, leaving him prickling with embarrassment over being so hopelessly clichéd.

It’s that very cycle of emotion that leads him to peevishly object their new status quo one morning — while feeling particularly irritable with the world in general — when John wordlessly presents him with breakfast the moment he seats himself at the table.

“You needn’t hang about and wait on me hand and foot,” he grumbles around the bit of candied ginger still melting on his tongue. “I’m not an invalid.”

“I know,” John acknowledges cheerfully as he settles back down in front of his own breakfast and picks up the newspaper he’d set aside, to pick up where he’d left off. “But the way I see it, that's my baby in there making you feel poorly. So the least I can do is try and make you comfortable. Besides,” he adds from behind the newly erected wall of newsprint, “you’ve never complained about my waiting on you before. Now there’s just an actual reason for it.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother to protest again.

 

* * *

 

As promised, John manages to convince Sarah to agree to a clandestine examination of sorts for a mystery patient that refuses to been seen officially.

She seems entirely unsurprised to find Sherlock awaiting her in the exam room, perched uncomfortably up on the table, wrapped up in the folds of his coat. She’s surprisingly sympathetic to their situation once John explains it, offering little more than an amused lift of her brows in response.

“So it’s the brother that you’re hiding things from, is it?” She asks matter-of-factly as she slips on a pair of gloves. “The creepy, omniscient one?”

“He’s hardly _omniscient_ — just nosy,” Sherlock bristles at the suggestion of Mycroft being anything more than a busybody with a penchant for misuse of Government resources. “Creepy, however, _is_ an excellent qualifier for him.”

It isn’t the most comfortable of experiences, being examined by John’s former lover, but he acquiescently tolerates her prodding and questions. John watches his compliance with such an air of astonishment that Sherlock would frankly find insulting, if it weren’t for his likewise relief about finally having Sherlock and the baby checked out.

Though, if Sarah’s utter lack of surprise as to who the father is _does_ seem to rankle John a bit, Sherlock pretends not to notice.

It’s at the end of the exam when he truly forgets himself, as he stares in marvel at the shadowy little outline of their child on the ultrasound monitor. It’s shockingly momentous to _see_ for the first time the very real — very _human —_ result of their union.

It’s more than a tad humiliating of course, being forced to partially disrobe before being smeared with cold lubricant jelly. Though he steadfastly refuses to admit any weakness when John notices his slight squirm of discomfort.

“It’s just transport John.”

“Transporting precious cargo more like,” Sarah quips cheekily as she reaches down and flicks a switch, and the speakers crackle to life, filling the room with a rapid little _whoosh, whoosh, whoosh._

Without any conscious thought, he reaches out and clutches at John’s hand, then realizes his mistake and starts. Just as he’s about to carefully retract his hand — in the hopes that the gesture has gone unnoticed in the excitement of moment — John squeezes back, turning to shoot him an exuberant grin before gluing his eyes back to the monitor.

 

* * *

 

Time slips by unnoticed, days turning into weeks in what seems like the blink of an eye.

And then, one morning, it all changes.

Sherlock blinks awake with the unsettling awareness that something is different, but it takes him a moment to identify the change.

He stomps through his morning routine, disquiet steadily knotting itself up into a hot ball of agitation in the pit of his belly.

When Sherlock finally flops down into across from him at the breakfast table, John freezes; jam dripping slowly from the knife in his hand as he scents the air with a strange, seemingly unconscious, fervour. Sherlock sinks further down in his chair, sulkily burrowing into the sheet still wrapped around him in anticipation of John’s next words.

“So that’s it then,” John declares with a deep sigh, laying the knife down with a slightly unsteady hand. “It’s time to tell Mycroft.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!!! I hope that everyone who does the Christmas thing had a lovely holiday. The second half of December was positively swamped for me, and I didn't get anywhere near the time to write that I thought I would. Funny story: I actually wrote this chapter quite some time ago, but it was before I'd settled on sticking to Sherlock's POV, so it was originally written from Mycroft's. Which I thought would be an easy switch, but as these things usually go, of course that meant I ended up pretty much rewriting it entirely. 
> 
> Thank you as always to my wonderful beta Miss_Communication for the second set of eyes, the excellent suggestions and the wonderful conversation!
> 
> Let's hop to it folks! Enjoy!

“You’re sure?” John prompts lightly from his chair. “Because, you know, it’s still not too late to flee the country.”

John’s contrived playfulness, of course, would be entirely more convincing had he not already posed the very same question twice already that morning. And if the ceaseless, repetitive drum of his socked feet against the floor wasn’t liable to wear a hole through the sitting room rug sometime in the near future.

“It’s going to be _fine_ ,” Sherlock assures again from his comfortable sprawl in his own chair, bolstering the words with an entirely false confidence of his own.

All things considered, he thinks he’s doing a rather excellent job of affecting nonchalance, especially given the veritable miasma of anxiety wafting off of John. At least one of them has to keep up appearances if they have any hope of manipulating Mycroft into agreement.

At the very least, his act seems to work on John.

With a brisk nod and rub of his palms down his thighs, the doctor visibly steels himself and finally rises from his chair to set off predictably toward the kitchen. Sherlock allows himself a brief moment of affectionate amusement as he watches through slitted eyes. England could fall, and John's first response would probably be to nip off to switch the kettle on.

No, Mycroft won't harm John.

He's certain of _that_ at least. It's far too garish and heavy-handed when John's not caused actual _harm_ — just committed a rather enormous faux pas.

But the baby…

The baby is another matter altogether.

He rolls his head back onto the chair cushion to stare up at the ceiling as he considers it. While he may be loathe to admit it, his brother has long been his unexpected champion. Excepting his interference during the years of Sherlock’s addiction (which was admittedly fair— not that Sherlock will ever admit it aloud) he’s always granted Sherlock an unheard of level of freedom. As if Sherlock were a beta rather than an omega.

But what if _this_ is the final straw that pushes Mycroft too far?

Drugs are an easy enough thing to sweep under the rug, but a _child —_ one bearing the Holmes name — is another thing altogether. A niggling anxiety lurks insidiously at the edges of his thoughts and churns in his gut. He's assured John that Mycroft will agree to go along with Sherlock’s scheme and grudgingly accept the child as his heir— but what if he's _wrong?_

As much as he loathes to admit it, it’s always a possibility.

There’s always _something._

His heart rate skyrockets as he unwillingly imagines it.

How easy it would be for Mycroft to send his goons to bundle Sherlock off to some blandly elegant, tightly controlled facility tucked away in the Alps, never to see John again. Not unlike his ultimate solution to Sherlock’s drug abuse. And perhaps to Mycroft’s way of thinking this _will_ be no different.

Just another case of Sherlock’s inability to resist indulgence.

 _No._ He squeezes his eyes shut and presses a hand to his abdomen. _I won't let anything happen to you._ How curious, the depth of sentiment that such a tiny, half-formed being can elicit.

No, Mycroft _will_ agree to the plan.

He has to.

Downstairs the front door opens and shuts, the distinct tap of an umbrella accompanying the footsteps that make their way to the base of the stairs. He draws in a deep, bracing breath through his nose as they reach the stairs and opens his eyes.

_Into battle._

 

* * *

 

He goes through the motions of lackadaisically trading barbs with Mycroft, feigning disinterest as he all the while keeps an eye trained for even the slightest tell. It takes longer than he would have guessed. Only after Mycroft primly seats himself in John’s chair, accepting the tea that John graciously offers with the usual condescending simper, does he freeze distractedly, cup left hovering in midair.

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock smirks in acknowledgement of the infinitesimal twitch of Mycroft’s nostrils. Over Mycroft’s shoulder, John’s eyes widen in alarm and he hastily makes his way to the sofa, deliberately placing himself as far from the other alpha as possible while still remaining within the room. “I was wondering how long it would take you. Seven and a half minutes; you’re getting _slow_.”

“Your scent,” Mycroft tediously states the obvious in response, “it’s… different.”

“Yes, well. As it stands, it just so happens that John has inadvertently impregnated me,” Sherlock announces carelessly, as if it were as commonplace as reporting rain in London.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John exclaims, tea sloshing over the rim of his mug as he startles. He dabs half-heartedly at the newly damp knee of his trousers and leans forward to thump the mug down on the coffee table with an irate huff. Mycroft very nearly loses his grasp on his own mug, but manages to retain it, only the small rattle of cup against saucer betraying his fumble.

“What?” Sherlock looks to John with dramatically feigned bewilderment. “Are we _not_ telling him? I do believe we agreed we can hardly keep it a secret any longer.”

As far as tactics go, it’s a perfect one.

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ” Mycroft sputters, only to go unanswered while John forgets himself and his nervousness entirely — just as intended — as he grows irate.

“Oh come off it! You know very well what I mean. We _discussed_ _this_ Sherlock. You can't just go about telling people that I- I- _accidentally_ got you up the duff! Do you realize how that sounds?”

_Perfect John. Absolutely perfect. The less deference you show Mycroft, the less power he has over you._

“Well it wasn't as though you did so on purpose John, _really,_ ” Sherlock eggs him on with a roll of his eyes and an impish smile, “despite the enthusiasm of the moment.”

“Oi! It wasn't like you weren't plenty _enthusiastic_ yourself!” John counters huffily, having seemingly forgotten Mycroft’s presence altogether in his irritation. “What was it that you said again? _Oh god John, please just -_ ” John cuts himself off abruptly, eyes tracking back to Mycroft with a sudden mortified awareness as he realizes what he’s saying. His cheeks bloom a particularly lurid shade of scarlet, and Sherlock lets loose a low rumble of laughter.

“Ah.” John sheepishly hauls his laptop forward from the coffee table, single-mindedly fixing his eyes on the screen in order to better avoid Mycroft’s. “Please, um, forget you heard that.”

“Yes, I shall certainly endeavour to do so.” Mycroft responds tightly, teeth clenched in a fierce rictus of a smile. “Pray tell,” he continues, eyes snapping hawkishly to Sherlock, “exactly _how_ this occurred.”

“I didn’t realize that you were unfamiliar with the process of reproduction,“ Sherlock sneers as he leans forward in his chair to offer mocking words of reassurance. “Don’t be alarmed — it’s to do with _sex_.”

Mycroft holds his stare unflinchingly; his only tell the minutest narrowing of his eyes. “Oh, how delightfully comedic,” he simpers. “If you ever tire of being a detective, perhaps you should consider becoming a comedian instead.” Sherlock throws himself back in his chair in delight as Mycroft pauses to take a bracing sip of his tea. “What I was referring to, of course, is that I do believe you've been on a high dosage of suppressants for well over a decade. Do please forgive my confusion over this unlikely turn of events.”

“There was an unexpected complication with my suppressants— “

“And by _that_ he means he quit taking them as an experiment, and quite predictably went into rebound heat.” John interrupts to add, clearly past the initial embarrassment of his verbal blunder, and over his fear of Mycroft’s potential retribution. Well, he supposes that seeing Mycroft in person _does_ tend to dull the fearsomeness of his persona.

“Yes,” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, “well, it perhaps wasn’t the most _thoroughly_ considered decision. But it was for a case! It was imperative that I determine what symptoms Maggie Darnell might have exhibited had her suppressants been replaced with placebos, and how sudden the onset would have been.”

“Mm,” John placidly hums, his attention remaining otherwise fixed on his laptop screen. “Like, say… a sudden, intense heat, triggered by massive withdrawal?”

“ _Apparently_ ,” Sherlock snips testily, angling a glare in John’s direction at the impertinence. _Perhaps John could have remained a_ touch _more fearful._ "In any case, John arrived home some time later, and ultimately proceeded to assist me with the resulting… dilemma.”

“I see,” Mycroft bites out tersely, carefully setting his tea cup aside before continuing in a clipped and dangerous voice. “And given the apparent _severity_ of my brother’s condition, Dr. Watson, did you stop to ensure that he was able to provide fully cognizant consent prior to providing this _assistance?_ ”

John looks up sharply from his computer at that, brows drawing together and mouth gaping, fish-like, as he processes the implication. “Of course I- I would never— ” he stammers in shock, “I’m not—”

“Mycroft, don’t be _ridiculous_.” Sherlock interjects scathingly, giving John a moment to collect himself. “You’ve never been given to histrionics, and it doesn’t suit you to start now. Do you honestly think that John, of all people, what? Tossed me across my bed and ravished me? Have you been reading too much Mills and Boon?”

On the sofa, John closes his eyes momentarily and takes a deep breath, as if to steady himself. “I’ll thank you to know that I’m perfectly capable of self-control Mycroft, ta very much.”

“You can’t _possibly_ blame me for exhibiting concern for my brother’s wellbeing,” Mycroft hisses back with righteous indignation.

“No, I can’t,” John allows with a thunderous glare of his own. “But I would _never_ do that to _any_  omega; much less Sherlock.”

“If you say so.”

“Why, would _you?_ ” John challenges with nostrils flaring, “You are, after all, just as much an alpha as I am.”

“Of course not!” Mycroft huffs with affront and reaches up to straighten his tie.

“Well don’t go accusing _me_ of something so despicable either!”

“Very well,” Mycroft offers a repentant nod. “I do apologize for the insult Dr. Watson. But I do believe we’re getting away from the issue at hand.” He turns his attention back to his brother and gives a supercilious sniff. “Am I given to understand then, that the use of… _other_ contraceptives were beyond the limited grasp of your apparently adolescent minds?”

“Granted, that was somewhat remiss of us,” Sherlock angles his chin in concession. “Though we only engaged in unprotected intercourse once over the entire duration of the heat.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John hisses, blushing furiously.

“ _Really_ John — I’m pregnant. There’s no getting around the fact that we obviously had intercourse,” Sherlock barrels on without so much as a blink. “But, given the impact the duration of my cycle suppression was expected to have had upon my fertility, we hadn’t thought conception to actually be possible. In _fact_ ,” he levels a smirk back at John, “I was advised of the extreme _un_ likelihood of it by a physician immediately prior.”

“Oh, shut it.” John snaps back with a roll of his eyes. “It _was_ very unlikely Sherlock — Very bloody unlikely. You're practically carrying a National Lottery winner.”

Sherlock can’t help but preen a bit at that. _Their_ child has already managed to be exceptional, even in the normally unremarkable matter of its conception.

“And precisely how long ago did this _dilemma_ arise?” Mycroft inquires coolly, shifting his grip on his umbrella handle.

“Fourteen weeks,“ Sherlock provides. “We're past the first trimester now.” One hand strays unconsciously toward his midsection as he speaks, and he quickly endeavours to disguise the protective gesture behind the smoothing an errant wrinkle.

“Very well,” Mycroft sighs heavily. “While this is _profoundly_ unexpected, it’s not unmanageable. A temporary separation from the siring alpha will still tidily resolve your predicament.” He retrieves his mobile from inside his jacket, and immediately begins tapping away at it. “A few weeks should more than suffice. I can arrange immediately to have the summer house in Marseille prepar— “

“ _No.”_ Sherlock cuts him off with a resonant snarl that arises from somewhere deep within him and surprises even himself. Mycroft’s fingers freeze on the screen, and he glances up in shock.

“Sherlock, if you delay any longer the… the loss will become increasingly hazardous to your own health.”

Sherlock swallows, forcing down the sudden swell of primal emotion, and smiles coolly at his brother. “There will be no hazard to my health whatsoever as I have no intentions to ‘resolve’ the situation, as you so tactfully put it.”

“No intentions to…” Mycroft blinks rapidly, disconcerted as he deciphers Sherlock’s meaning. ”Surely you aren’t suggesting… you can’t possibly wish to _keep_ it!”

“ _Obviously,_ ” Sherlock drawls in a spectacularly unimpressed manner. “I gave it a great deal of consideration when the result of the situation became apparent, and while it will admittedly have a significant effect my lifestyle as it currently stands, it's an extraordinary scientific opportunity. Given my normally religious use of suppressants, and my disinterest in acquiring a bondmate, it’s highly unlikely to ever be a possibility again. I simply cannot pass it up.”

“Oh, of _course._ Why ever didn’t I think of that? Birthing a human being— _for science._ ” Mycroft simpers sarcastically. He presses his forehead against his thumb and index finger, exhaling louding through his nose in irritation. “Sherlock, be _reasonable_. I would remind you that you haven’t exactly led an entirely healthful existence. Have you given any thought whatsoever to the potential repercussions that your willful suppression of your bodily functions, and your past narcotic abuse might have on the foetus?”

The words hurt more than he cares to admit.

No matter how far he’s come, the strides he’s made, he never can seem to escape from the shadow that haunts him. It’s all he’ll ever be now;  _Sherlock, the junkie._

He opens his mouth to lash back viciously, just as John pipes up from the sofa. He’s closed his laptop and settled it quietly on the table, and cradles his mug between his two hands as he leans forward earnestly in his seat.

“He’s had a scan and all the possible testing done. All of it. Everything looks good— fantastic actually. I checked it all over myself. He’ll need some feeding up, yeah, but that’s not a surprise to anyone, and I think I’m more than equipped to handle that. Especially if he has reason to cooperate for once.” His deep blue gaze is calm and unyielding as it meets Mycroft’s head on. “You can’t hold his mistakes over his head forever.”

“How very uplifting,” Mycroft retorts. “But then you weren’t the one who had to deal with his overdosing on a filthy mattress in a some squalid drug den, now were you?” His eyes fall shut for a moment, as if recalling that very occasion, and Sherlock narrows his eyes in surprise at uncharacteristic display of emotion. “No, even disregarding any health concerns, Sherlock _hardly_ has the kind of lifestyle or temperament conducive to raising a child. Perhaps you’ve forgotten your status as a persona alieni iuris, brother dearest? As your Alpha Familiae, ultimately all decisions regarding your person fall to me.” He levels a withering glare in John’s direction. “Or did that small detail not occur to you, Dr. Watson, when you were availing yourself of another alpha’s property?”

“Sherlock is a _person!”_ John starts, utterly incensed. “He isn’t - he isn’t _property!_ Just because some ridiculous, backward la— ” Sherlock cuts him off with a staying hand before he can work himself into a lather.

“He’s only trying to provoke you John, don’t pay him any mind.” Sherlock placates, not unkindly. He’s seen what he needs to see, and any lingering anxiety has fled his mind, replaced by cool, collected confidence. “Please do spare us the theatrics Mycroft. You may be tediously traditional in some respects, but you’re hardly about to drag me off and lock me in some tower, then call John out in the streets, as if this were the middle ages.” Sherlock rolls his eyes disdainfully. “No— If that were the case, you would never have permitted me to live in a semblance of independence to begin with, especially not after the drugs. And certainly not with an unbonded Alpha as a flatmate.”

“Permitting this… _lifestyle_ of yours,” Mycroft sneers, waving his fingers disdainfully at the flat in general, “is one thing Sherlock— but you can’t _possibly_ expect that I will allow you to tarnish the family name in such a shameful manner!”

_Well, that’s enough of that._

“It's an alpha,” Sherlock announces, throwing down his trump card as he swoops from his chair to collect his violin from its case.

A brief hush settles upon the room.

“I see,” Mycroft says finally, turning to gaze thoughtfully into the grate. “Well. I suppose that _does_ change things.”

“It does?” John declares incredulously from the sofa. “Really? After all _that,”_ he gestures wildly with a finger between the three of them, and looks to Sherlock in disbelief. “I mean, I know you said… but just like that? _Really?”_

“Ah. Perhaps I neglected to mention,” Sherlock elaborates with a smirk as he sets to tuning the strings, “my brother is rather... shall we say, _disinterested_ in intimate relationships.”

“ _Oh.”_ John widens his eyes in understanding, then turns to blink at Mycroft curiously. “So you’re…”

“I really don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Mycroft scowls stiffly.

“Except in how it _is_ , actually.” Sherlock offers a polite grimace. “Because for all that _I_ don’t give a toss about it, _you’re_ quite particular about the Holmes lineage.” He drops dramatically back over the arm of his chair to sprawl across it delightedly. _“Per alpha vicarius!”_ He trumpets to the room at large. “The particularly antiquated legal statute that allows the practice of employing an unrelated alpha to sire an heir upon an omega dependens.”

“I’m aware of it,” Mycroft acknowledges snappishly.

“Oh good. So unless you’re feeling especially eager to espouse yourself — which, if we’re being quite honest, is even more absurd to imagine than my own currently gestating state — I’m saving you a _world_ of bother, and you know it. As John and I are unbonded, in the eyes of our noble judiciary I’ll be giving _you_ a child, via proxy. An alpha heir to carry on the Holmes name.” He pauses thoughtfully and wrinkles his face in a moue of disgust. “That’s rather appallingly incestuous sounding, actually, if you think about it.”

“Yes, quite.” Mycroft agrees, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “And you, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft turns to John expectantly after a few brief, contemplative moments. “You're amenable to go along with this, frankly, preposterous idea?”

“I am, yeah.” John replies without hesitation, the built-up tension immediately melting from his frame. “So long as you didn't have me killed.” He smiles good-naturedly. “I mean, it's entirely mad, yes, I'll grant you that. But I'll certainly never be bored.”

“No, I very much doubt that will ever be the case.”

”Look Mycroft," John begins hesitantly, "I understand that you're worried. I do. But it’s going to be just fine. People all over the world do this every day, and they're not even Sherlock Holmes. And besides, he has me, doesn’t he?” John twitches a fond smile at Sherlock over the rim of his mug as he finishes off his tea.

“Hm.” Mycroft hums noncommittally.

At that, John stands and collects both Mycroft and Sherlock’s mugs, giving Sherlock’s forearm a reassuring squeeze as he does, then strides away into the kitchen.

Mycroft and Sherlock sit in silence, listening to the comfortably domestic noise of running water and the clatter of dishes in the sink as John putters about. After a short while, Sherlock vaults himself back upright again, striding to the centre of the room and settling the violin back onto his shoulder. He’s just begun to coax a lilting tune from the strings when John emerges from the kitchen carrying his jacket, coming to a stop at Sherlock’s side.

“Right. Well, that’s me off then. I’ll be at the surgery until late, but I’ll pick up some takeaway on my way home.” John shrugs into his jacket, patting at his back pocket to check for his wallet. He tilts his head up at Sherlock with a smile, “Indian sound good?”

 _“_ Mm, yes.” Sherlock smiles back. “Veggie korma for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Will do,” John replies, bobbing his head in the crisp manner of a soldier accepting orders, then turns to nod his head in farewell at Mycroft. Mycroft sniffs somewhat disparagingly, but inclines his head gracefully in return all the same. “Try not to behave like adults in the meantime— I wouldn't want to miss that.” He turns his head back again to grin up at Sherlock playfully. “Mind, you do have a bit of Watson in you now. That might lend you a lick of a sense,” he says as he reaches out, utterly casual, and taps his fingers lightly against Sherlock’s still-flat abdomen. Sherlock freezes immediately at the touch.

He imagines it's what being hit by lightning feels like.

If being hit by lightning were pleasurable.

Before he can formulate a response of any kind, John’s waving jauntily as he exits the flat. As Sherlock comes back to his senses, he scowls at the realization that his face is frozen in an embarrassingly obvious expression that Mycroft will pick apart immediately. He drifts over to the window in avoidance, peering out through the curtains onto the street below.

“And when will you and the good Doctor be bonding then?” Mycroft prompts from behind him. The fat bastard doesn’t waste a second.

“Don’t be absurd Mycroft. John and I have no intention of bonding.”

“Is that so?”

“We haven’t engaged in intercourse since the child’s conception, and will certainly not be doing so again. Besides, as you well know, a heat is required for bonding to take place. And I’m hardly about to return to the appallingly untenable lifestyle of managing heat cycles after the child is weaned.”

“So am I to take it that you didn’t…” Mycroft hesitates awkwardly, “ _enjoy_ your little foray back into the nature of your biology?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock snaps, then pauses, considering the unintended implication. “That isn’t to say— What you so absurdly attempted to imply earlier was entirely off the mark. John ensured that the circumstances were as pleasant for me as I imagine is possible.”

“I see.” Mycroft murmurs softly, a strange sadness to his tone.

“Life without suppressants is otherwise discomfiting, and inconvenient at best. And even if it wasn’t, John’s usual sexual preferences run decidedly to that of the feminine variety. He wouldn’t… It was simply a spontaneous — if unorthodox — solution to an unexpected situation, which has resulted in a remarkable outcome. We’re simply friends and flatmates, and will continue on as such. Albeit with the added responsibility of shared parenthood. There’s no reason to read any more into it than that.”

“If you say so, brother mine.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I most definitely did _not_ intend for nearly a month to pass between updates, but time just sort of flew by. Mea cupla! My moat profuse apologies to everyone who's left a comment to which I haven't replied yet— they are very much appreciated, and clearly I need to log in and check my inbox between updates, or turn on email notifications.  >_< I will be replying to them all immediately! On a brighter note, this chapter is a doozy. Hope you all enjoy!

John arrives home that evening with the promised takeaway and dishes it out on the coffee table, handing a heaping plate of rice and curry off to Sherlock before fixing one of his own.

“So it went easier this afternoon than I expected,” he comments, plunking himself down next to Sherlock on the sofa as he begins tucking into his food. “In the end, at least.”

“Mm, yes.” Sherlock agrees as he switches through the channels on the telly aimlessly. He finally settles upon what promises to be a passably diverting documentary about capital punishment on BBC One before picking up his spoon. “Though his immediate response to the happy announcement rather gave away the conclusion.”

“Oh?” John quirks a curious brow in his direction as he shovels another mouthful of papri chaat into his mouth.

“His primary concerns were whether you had taken advantage of me and my health, while the potential blight upon the family name was thrown out as mere afterthought. For Mycroft, that was an absolutely unheard of display of sentiment.”

John laughs at that, shaking his head fondly.

“For a genius, you’re certainly oblivious to just how much your brother worries about you.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock twists his face in disgust, “what the hell am I supposed to say to that?” John chuckles heartily in response, and Sherlock pointedly redirects his attention to his plate and the telly, inviting no further discussion of the matter whatsoever.

Despite the rather generous helping, he finishes first — it’s startling how hungry he finds himself these days — and sets his plate aside to curl up with his head on the arm of the sofa, tucking his toes beneath the warmth of John’s thigh. Putting his own unfinished plate aside for a moment, John reaches up behind them to pull down the afghan shaking it out before he drapes it gently over Sherlock’s side. Sherlock gives a hum of contentment and tucks a hand over his belly beneath the blanket. John resumes his dinner, resting one hand on Sherlock’s knee as if unconsciously while they relax, the soothing drone and blue glow of the telly filling the room. It’s so achingly warm and domestic that Sherlock allows himself to luxuriate in it a while.

He may never have John in all the ways he dreams of, but this— this more than he could have ever hoped for. If he sets reality aside, just for a moment, it’s almost as if they’re a happily bonded pair with a long anticipated child on the way.

Sherlock’s almost drifted off to sleep when John destroys the blissful peace of the moment.

“Suppose we should start thinking on who else to tell,” he announces offhandedly as sets his plate atop of Sherlock’s and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Now that the hard bit’s over with.”

“What?” Sherlock startles, pushing himself up on one arm to gawp at John, aghast. “Why the devil would we do that?”

“What do you mean?” John asks innocently as he packs up the remaining take away. “It’s only a matter of time before anyone will be able to tell on their own. It’d be nice to tell people before that.” He gathers up their dishes and the boxes and disappears with them into the kitchen.

“And why _can’t_ they all just sort it out on their own?” Sherlock calls after him. “I hardly see why we need to go about trumpeting the news to one and all, as though some sort of sideshow were coming to town.” The very idea of it; of going around announcing it to all and sundry — of everyone _knowing —_ makes him squirm.

“Oh my god,” John reappears in the doorway, with a grin of amusement. “Are you embarrassed?”

“No!” Sherlock denies insistently, even as he feels the tingle of blood creeping across his cheeks.

“You are!” John crows, climbing back onto the sofa and crowding close on his knees. Sherlock studiously ignores the way that the playful sudden proximity sends his heart racing. “Look at you — you’re pouting!” John teases with delight. “Why are you embarrassed? What, you don’t want people to know that The Great Sherlock Holmes is just as susceptible to his baser nature as the rest of us?”

“ _No_ ,” he insists petulantly, wrapping the blanket around himself like a shield as he sits up, determinedly pulling his bottom lip in from its outward jut.

A brief shadow crosses John’s face and his grin falters.

“Embarrassed for people to find out you shared your heat with me?”

 _“Definitely_ not, _”_ Sherlock declares sharply, instantly shutting down _that_ ridiculous suggestion.

If there’s one thing he _isn’t_ embarrassed about in this whole sordid mess, it’s that.

Rather the opposite.

“Oh,” John blushes at the vehemence of Sherlock’s denial and smiles sheepishly. “That’s good then.” He nudges Sherlock light-heartedly. “Were you hoping to keep it to ourselves until the baby just falls out from beneath your jumper, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous John,” Sherlock huffs, burrowing deeper under the afghan to hide his struggle to keep a straight face. “I never wear _jumpers_.”

John laughs that full cheerful belly laugh that he only ever lets out in the privacy of 221B, precisely as Sherlock intended. The sound of it triggers a funny warm sensation low in Sherlock’s belly.

“It’s exciting Sherlock. _That’s_ why people tell everyone,” John explains as he as he falls back, the distance between their bodies yawning as he props himself up against the opposite arm of the sofa. Sherlock feels a momentary twinge of disappointment, but then John stretches out and amiably tangles their feet together, and the sight of the two smaller, sock-clad feet nestled between his own warms him from inside out. “At the very least,” John continues obliviously, “we’ve got to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I suppose I should tell Harry, but… “ he trails off, plucking his beer from the coffee table to take a long pull off it.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock frowns. “I could be persuaded to see why we might share the news with Mrs. Hudson, but I don’t see what business it is of Gavin’s.”

“Oh for God’s sake, it’s Greg! And we work with him!”

“So?”

“So, I want him to know _before_ it’s obvious, so he doesn’t come to you with some hideously dangerous case in the meantime that I know you won’t want to say no to.”

“But _John_ ,” Sherlock whinges.

“No Sherlock. We agreed— if you want to do this, we’ll do it. But if you’re going to take unnecessary risks with our child’s life before they're even born, you need to consider whether this is something we really _should_ be doing.”

The blasted man. He knows that Sherlock can hardly argue against _that._

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson takes the news exactly as expected; sniffling soppily into a tissue and repeatedly launching herself forward to ecstatically squeeze each of them in turn.

It’s positively insufferable.

Or so he tells the appallingly delighted omega wriggling about inside of him.

“Oh boys!” She trills as she flutters about making tea and setting out biscuits. “I’m just so _happy!_ Oh how I’ve worried about you, Sherlock. Now, I knew you’d no need for some silly alpha that would just order you about, expecting you to keep house. But that didn’t mean you weren’t _lonely_! I thought, well, maybe a nice beta might do… but then John moved in and I just knew — _knew_ — you’d finally found the one for you! Someone who appreciates you just as you are. A bit unseemly that you haven’t bonded yet, of course, but these things happen,” she natters on with a wave of her free hand as she begins pouring out. “Plenty of time for that after the baby is born! Why, my cousin Edith had her first when she was only seventeen — terrible scandal at the time — but-”

“Ah, actually Mrs. Hudson,” John looks to him for assistance, but Sherlock offers nothing more than a sardonic lift of his brow while he crunches down on a biscuit.

 _Oh no John, this one is_ all _yours._

If John wanted to flounce about informing all and sundry, he could very well field the inevitable fuss and expectations lobbed their way.

“Actually, um, we hadn’t been planning on it,” John coughs uncomfortably. “Bonding, I mean.”

“What?” Mrs. Hudson’s smile drops slighty, and she sets the teapot down with a thump.

“Well, we’re just _friends_ , not...” John bumbles, trailing off as Mrs. Hudson’s eyes drift pointedly to Sherlock’s midsection. “And Dads now I suppose!” he adds with an awkward laugh. “But we won’t be… It was just a one time thing.”

She frowns in dismay and looks to Sherlock, who keeps his face carefully blank, despite the twinge of hurt that spikes in his chest at John’s words, smiling blandly in agreement as he plucks another biscuit from the plate.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson collects herself and resumes filling their cups. “Well, you two always do like to do things a bit differently, don’t you? I’m sure you’ll sort it all out in time.”

John rather wisely chooses not to disagree with that.

 

* * *

 

The opportunity to inform Lestrade presents itself sooner than anticipated; a text arriving late the next night about the discovery of a grisly dismemberment in Higham Hill. Sherlock can’t even bring himself to hide the summons from John in avoidance, because he’s been absolutely itching for a case and this one promises to be at least a seven.

Lestrade is waiting for them out front of the small commercial building when they arrive, nursing a steaming takeaway cup of coffee and furtively smoking a cigarette. He tosses the butt aside guiltily as Sherlock approaches.

“Shit, thought I’d be done by the time you got here. It’s half three— do you just summon cabs out of bloody thin air?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock smirks. “Besides, I already knew you started up again two weeks ago.”

The D.I. mutters something rude under his breath and blows at the steam curling up from the lip of his cup into the cool night air.

“Where’s the body?” Sherlock prompts hurriedly, casting a quick glance back over his shoulder. Perhaps if they can move things along before John finishes paying the cabbie, he’ll forget about his plans entirely.

“Round back,” Lestrade tilts his head toward the small alleyway to the side of the building and begins leading the way as soon John joins them. “There’s a Christian ministry that runs out of one of the suites upstairs. One of the staff found it when she brought down the rubbish after a prayer meeting. All carved up, just like the two in Islington last month.”

“Alpha, signs of ante-mortem bloodletting, external genitalia missing?” Sherlock demands eagerly.

“Got it in one,” Lestrade shares a resigned look with John, who snorts softly in amusement.

“A serial killer!” Sherlock just barely holds back from rubbing his hands together with glee, speeding his steps to stride ahead, beaming excitedly back over his shoulder at them. “Is it my birthday?”

As if it weren’t already splendid enough as it is— if there's anything that could suitably distract John from his ridiculous goal, it’s a serial killer with a penchant for dismemberment and anatomical trophies.

“Hey Greg,” John pipes up as they round the corner and the scene, brightly lit with floodlights and swarming with Yarders, comes into view. “Before we get to it… we, um, wanted to have a word with you. If that’s alright.”

_Blast._

No such luck apparently.

“‘Course,” Lestrade agrees amiably with another sip of his coffee, coming to a stop next to the carefully arranged array of body parts. Sherlock shoves his hands in his coat pockets and fidgets, well aware of what’s about to come next. His desire to start examining the evidence is outweighed only by his _lack_ of the same to participate in the impending conversation.

“Look,” John rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “I know this will probably come as a bit of a surprise, but well… we’re, um… expecting—”

“Expecting? Expecting what?” Lestrade cuts him off with a look of alarm. “Oh god, please tell me someone hasn’t threatened to sue again.”

“What? No! Thank Christ, no. We’re just… y’know, _expecting_.” John raises his eyebrows and tilts his head as he stresses the last word for emphasis, but Lestrade just shakes his head, offering a tiny grimace of incomprehension. John sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose. “A baby, Greg. We’re _expecting_ a baby.”

“A what?!” Lestrade squawks, eyes going wide as the proverbial saucers. He winces, then self-consciously drops his voice immediately to a sharp whisper. “You mean that Sherlock’s…” He trails off, eyes darting to Sherlock and roving wildly over his form in stupefaction, as if expecting to find he’s suddenly sprouted bulging belly in the past few moments.

“Yes Lestrade,” Sherlock drawls sardonically, “given that John is an alpha, I certainly wouldn’t expect _him_ to be the one currently gestating our offspring. Lovely— well, now that’s over with, we can get to work.”

“I didn’t know that you two were… You’ve always said that you’re not shagging!” Lestrade disregards him entirely to turn and grin at John, playfully punching him in the arm. “You sly fox! You bloody well pulled the wool over my eyes! I never even suspected! When is the little mite due?”

“In approximately twenty-five weeks,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly as he drops to his knees to begin examining the torso at their feet. “But you do know, as you're always so quick to remind me whenever _I_ dare get distracted, we _are_ at a crime scene. And we’re not,” he adds as an afterthought leaning in close to squint at a knife-wound.

“Not what?” Lestrade draws his brows together in confusion.

“ _Shagging_ , as you so charmingly put it,” Sherlock elaborates, “John and I. These cuts here,” he points, “they were caused by a saw — manual, not electric. The rest of the lacerations remain consistent with the use of a small, sharp-edged blade, just like the last one.” With hardly a pause, he switches back between subjects. ”We weren’t doing so before, and haven’t since the heat during which we conceived.”

“Wait— Okay… But then—” Lestrade stammers in bewilderment, frazzled by the ricochet. Sherlock rounds him off.

“It was an acci—” He pauses, looking up just in time to catch John’s warning glower. “It was a singular occurrence; I had an unexpected heat, and John provided his assistance. Due to a small error of judgement I am now carrying our child.” Sherlock sighs heavily. “Now, can we _please_ return our attention to the violently dismembered corpse at hand?”

“Just a mo’, yeah?” John fires back affably before continuing on undeterred, as though Lestrade weren't gaping like some particularly unintelligent fish. "Anyways, what I was trying to get at was, well, obviously he's going to need to be a bit more careful— especially once he gets further along. I know it won’t be easy to reign him," he shoots a long-suffering look Sherlock's way, "but if you could just… keep it in mind?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade overcomes his shock to nod enthusiastically, “yeah, of course. God, you’re going to have your hands full aren’t you? I never thought I’d see the day. Well, congratulations, mate!“ He crows, slapping John heartily on the back as they both move to crouch alongside the body. “Before you know it, you’ll be showing up here with a wee thing in tow.”

He freezes mid-crouch, horror overtaking his expression.

“Oh god, you’re going to show up at my crime scenes with a baby, aren’t you?”

 

* * *

 

Telling Molly on the other hand is, well, entirely unplanned. And he can’t even lay the blame for it at John’s feet.

Once they'd made their announcements to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, John had promised that everyone else could wait to find out until the matter was well and truly obvious to all— and he’d stayed true to his word.

What Sherlock _hadn’t_ anticipated, however, is that his own body mightn’t be quite so cooperative.

The discovery of a fourth victim within the week, and an offhand observation by John about ultraviolet re-entry stamps has them rushing back to St. Bart’s; to confirm whether they’d missed a commonality between the bodies that would finally weave the threads of the case together. They burst into the morgue just as Molly’s in the midst of finishing up an autopsy on a corpse significantly farther along in decomposition than their own, and the stench hits him like a wall, his stomach roiling instantly.

He’s never been bothered in the slightest by the various sights and smells of putrefaction. It has, in fact, been the source of many a disagreement within the confines of 221B. (After the incident with the cow tongues, John and Mrs. Hudson had even banded together to establish a firm set of rules governing his experimentation with remains of any sort within the flat, heavily dependent upon refrigeration and labelling. Terribly unscientific-minded of them.) But now, try as he might to contain his composure, he barely makes it two steps before he’s forced to bolt for the bin and violently empty his stomach of its contents.

“Sherlock!” Molly chirps in alarm while John curses. There’s a patter of footsteps, and then a hand settles tentatively on his back, stroking soothingly between his shoulder blades.

“My wife was the just same with our first,” Lestrade informs John sympathetically somewhere over Sherlock’s head. “One whiff of bacon and she'd be sick all over the place. Not that I’m implying Sherlock eats people— I just meant y’know, familiar smells.”

“Is he alright?” Molly questions anxiously while Sherlock continues to dry heave helplessly.

“Oh, he'll be fine,” Lestrade reassures her offhandedly, “just the baby, most like.”

John’s hand falters in its stroke as he tenses and Sherlock lets his eyes fall shut, his fingers tightening on the lip of the bin.

“The… Sorry?” Molly’s voice is soft and small.

Lestrade hisses contritely. “Oh _shit._ I forgot—”

Most people who take him for a beta are idiots; easily fooled by a liberal application of scent neutralizer, his seeming independence, and the confidence he wields without hesitation. Molly's never counted amongst those.

No, Molly’s been blind for an entirely different reason.

It’s easy; to fantasize about the simplest option. She’s the modern, open-minded sort, of course; alpha, beta, omega — it wouldn’t wouldn’t matter to her in the slightest what he is, so long as he wanted her back. He knows it's been cruel of him to string her along as he has, never confirming for her the one tiny detail that would have nipped her little crush on him in the bud once and for all. But his pride, vanity and selfishness had stopped him.

And now… well.

He supposes she had to find out eventually that there’s only ever been John for him; the way it counts.

It’s still oddly humiliating, to have it taken out of his hands like this.

When he looks up be locks eyes with John and sees the sudden understanding of his hesitation to spread the news fall into place. The careful fiction that he’s woven around himself over the years is rapidly unravelling before his very eyes and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Not that he's set down in this path. Even those who know the truth forget it often enough, without any obvious tells to remind them. But once he’s grown soft and round, there’ll be no denying it or forgetting it any more.

Once and for all everyone in this new life he’s built for himself will see him as an omega.

He’d hoped to have just a short time longer before it all changed.

“John and I are expecting a baby Molly,” he informs her as crisply as possible with a voice still tremulous from the strain of retching. He rests his head on his forearm and angles his head in her direction to observe her.

“Oh! That's… ” Her eyes glimmer briefly behind the plastic glare of her autopsy visor before she visibly swallows the pained realization down and squares her shoulders slightly. Beneath his remorse, a small bubble of pride swells in his chest for her. She may seem unassuming and fragile, but she’s far stronger than she looks. She wrings her hands against the front of her surgical gown and she offers them a brittle smile. “Congratulations!”

 

* * *

 

Three days later and Sherlock’s identified their suspect, his motivation, and his modus operandi. Timothy Beckett, a thirty-six year old, homosexual beta, raised by a bitter single mother to harbour a pathological resentment of alphas, following his alpha father’s desertion. Clandestine penchant for picking up submissive alphas at seedy underground bars for violent and degrading sadomasochistic sex.

Charming.

The murder of his first victim had been nothing more than another one-off gone spectacularly wrong. Once the initial panic had died away, and he’d realized he’d gotten away with it however… well, the escalation to deliberately seeking out further victims had been swift.

Of course, now there’s still the small matter of _finding_ him.

A poorly-timed raid on Beckett and his mother’s home had turned up his little collection of gruesome souvenirs, but the man himself had gone to ground.

Which leaves them holed up for the second night in a row at NSY, poring over the case files with a handful of officers for any in sort of clue as to where he might have gone, a drowsy hush is settling over the room as the hours creep by. John perches on the tabletop next to Sherlock, legs dangling as he sips at his third cup of coffee and pages through a dense folder. His thigh brushes against Sherlock’s elbow with every gentle sway of his leg, and while Sherlock’s aware that it _should_ be terribly irritating he finds it strangely centering instead. As if John were some sort of touchstone to aid his focus.

Then Lestrade bursts into the office, triumphantly waving a printout of grainy camera footage, and everyone jolts to attention.

“We've got him! The bastard’s been holed up above a mate’s workshop on Fountayne Road, working for him under the table. Picked him up on CCTV at Tottenham Hale and followed him from there. You two, with me!” John hops off the desk eagerly with a push of his hands while Sherlock shrugs into his coat. As he turns around, his eyes catch on the collection of photographs of the victims’ various knife wounds pinned on the wall behind them.

“Wait,” he blanches and snags the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat between his fingers. “Sherlock, maybe you shouldn’t…”

Lestrade follow’s John’s gaze and the grin of elation melts from his face. Before the DI even opens his mouth, Sherlock feels his stomach swoop in unpleasant anticipation.

“Ah shit. I forgot… Yeah, sorry Sherlock, but —” he exchanges a tense look with John “— you're going to have to sit this one out.”

“You _must_ be joking.”

“No,” Lestrade has the grace to look sheepish. “Look, you can still come along— just, you'll have to stay with the secondary team outside.”

Sherlock casts a quick glance about to check for potential witnesses — the last thing he needs is to become the highlight of the Scotland Yard rumour mill — before hissing; “I’m pregnant, not an invalid!”

“No one’s saying that you are,” Lestrade holds his hands up defensively. “It’s just a matter of safety. The higher ups would have my hide if they found out I let a pregnant Omega tromp off after a suspected, probably armed, serial killer!“

“But you’re the only one who knows!” Sherlock snaps back. “They can hardly discipline you over something they aren’t even _aware_ of!”

“Yeah?” Lestrade's eyes harden. “And if you come along and something happens to you? You think that wouldn't be front page news by morning? And that's my job there— yours too. We're lucky Mycroft ever gave his permission for you to consult for us. That’d all go up in smoke in a blink.” Lestrade crosses his arms mulishly and raises his brows.

“Go ahead then, tell me that I’m wrong.”

And therein lies the rub.

He _can’t._

 

* * *

 

And so Sherlock finds himself sat between Donovan and a young PC whose name he’s already deleted, smouldering with discontent in the back of cramped van in Tottenham, when the call comes crackling through on the radio.

“Officer in need of assistance!” A garbled voice shouts over a frenetic background din. “All units respond! Suspect headed toward the east exit of the building— armed and extremely dangerous!”

The words rush through Sherlock’s mind, synapses firing at light speed.

_Armed, extremely dangerous, the east exit._

Where John had been posted with a bumbling new recruit. John; who isn’t even kitted out in the body armour that just failed to sufficiently protect some hapless constable inside. Who’d furtively palmed his gun off to a mute and fuming Sherlock in the parking garage of Scotland Yard, before they’d seperated, with a wry _“I don’t think so this time, yeah?”_

His gun, which he uses almost exclusively as tool for protecting _Sherlock,_ not himself.

He’s off before anyone can stop him, exploding from the back of the van and breaking into a run down the street while Donovan shouts after him. He rounds the corner quickly, coming to a stumbling halt as he comes face to face with the heavy black gate closing off the small car park to the back of the building. He’s just determining how best to scale the smooth steel when the clang of a metal door crashing open sounds out somewhere up above.

He squints into the gloom, the dim glow from the streetlamp across the road doing little to illuminate the shadows. John and a large bearded man tumble out onto the rickety fire escape, mid-grapple, their grunts echoing out in the darkness. They slam into the railing, and something metallic clatters against the grate of the platform just before the inertia of their bodies sends them tipping up and over the rail.

And then, just like that, they’re gone.

 

* * *

 

For several long moments, Sherlock’s entirely certain that his heart has, in fact, stopped.

As the wail of sirens close in on them, Lestrade bolts through fire escape door at a dead run, chest heaving as he clatters down the steps, two uniformed PCs following behind. Sherlock tries to quiet his harsh breathing, desperately training his ears for any sounds from the far end of the lot.

“They’re breathing!” Lestrade’s voice calls out suddenly, clear and distinct, and Sherlock sags against the cool metal in front of him. “Someone go get that bloody gate open for an ambulance.”

A drum of footsteps approaches and then suddenly the gate swings open before him, rusty hinges screeching in protest. He trips forward along with it, and the young constable on the other side yelps in surprise as she reaches out to catch him. He pushes away and past her the moment he’s righted, rushing toward the back of the car park.

Lestrade is in the midst of helping John stagger upright in the depths of an overflowing skip beneath the fire escape, while the third officer presides over a groaning lump whom Sherlock assumes is one Timothy Beckett. When Lestrade catches sight of Sherlock he lets out a sigh of relief.

“Oh thank christ, give me a hand getting him out of here, will you?”

Sherlock presses close to the side of the skip without hesitation, reaching up to steady John as he fairly tumbles over the edge into Sherlock’s grasp. He’s sporting what will certainly be an impressive bruise along the side of his face come morning, and a good-sized gash along the side of one arm, but he’s otherwise none the worse for wear. He blinks up at Sherlock bleary-eyed and sways unsteadily, clearly still coming to.

He’s the single most beautiful thing that Sherlock has ever seen.

Not that that stops him in the slightest from positively _vibrating_ with barely contained anger at John’s side for the next hour while the medics attend to him.

“Gave you a bit of a scare, did he?” The beta medic neatly bandaging John’s arm smiles up at Sherlock while she works. “Mine’s just the same. Alphas,” she shakes her head good-naturedly, “they're all alike. Luckily, they’re also built like brick houses. There we are, right as rain.” She pats John on the knee as she finishes off bandaging his arm. “You stay out of trouble now— your poor mate’s got more than enough to worry about while he’s carrying.”

Sherlock stiffens.

Of _course_ she assumes that their bondmates.

Between the adrenaline of watching John's scuffle with a killer, and the time that’s passed since he last applied it, his neutralizer is well on its way to wearing off. And no one would assume a pregnant omega might be unbonded when they’re out in the company of an alpha. Between that and him being all bundled up the way he is, scarf disguising his lack of a bondbite, there’s nothing else to disabuse her of the notion.

He waits expectantly for John to correct her, but the alpha merely offers her a chastened smile.

Before they can so much as climb out from the back of the ambulance, Lestrade appears to insist on taking John’s statement. Sherlock stays silent the entire time, lips pressed together into a thin line, ignoring the concerned looks that the DI repeatedly shoots his way. The moment that they’re finally free to go, Sherlock is off without a word, trotting briskly off toward the main thoroughfare to summon a cab, without so much as a glimpse backward to ensure that John is following.

 

* * *

 

“You had no right!” Sherlock thunders as he bangs into the flat, John close at his heels. He snatches his scarf from where it hangs around his neck and whips it furiously across the room at his chair. “None whatsoever, interfering like that!”

“No right?” John growls back. “I’m sorry, did you forget the small detail that that is, in fact, my child that you have in there?“ he shouts, stabbing an accusatory finger in the direction of Sherlock’s midsection. “I think I have somewhat of a vested interest in your safety!”

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be now?” Sherlock demands. “You think you can just make decisions for me now?”

“If you’re going to keep being a complete pillock, trying to throw yourself — and _our_ baby — headlong into harm’s way, then yeah, maybe! If that’s what it takes to keep you safe!”

“Boys?” Mrs. Hudson’s anxious chirp cuts in from the doorway. “Is everything alright?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock intones mechanically. “We’re rowing. Do go away.”

“Oh, John!” She cries out, paying Sherlock no mind whatsoever as one hand flies to her mouth at the sight of John's bruised face.

“I'm fine, just took a bit of a tumble is all.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock agrees scathingly. “A bit of a tumble. Apparently that’s the new way to refer to taking a header off the second storey of a building.“

“We’re just… having a bit of a disagreement Mrs. Hudson,” John politely offers with a strained smile. “We’re very sorry about the noise.”

“It’s fine,” Mrs. Hudson assures soothingly, waving off the apology. “I’ll just...” she stage whispers, pointing toward the knob, then reaches out to gingerly pull the door shut as she goes.

“Keep me safe?” Sherlock marvels disdainfully. “I’m not some— some _object_ , that you can secret away from the outside world. I don’t _belong_ to you!”

“God, do I know that,” John laughs bitterly. “ _Trust_ _me—_ if there’s one thing I know, it’s that.”

“Well then, stop acting like it! I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me— _everything!_ And you still keep demanding more!”

“More? You agreed to take extra precautions in the work. Not running off after a serial killer definitely counts as that. Christ Sherlock, Patel was wearing a stab vest and bastard still managed to do a number on him— if you’d come along, _you_ could been the one who ended up in hospital!”

”You don’t know that!”

“But it was a possibility! And it wasn’t an acceptable one.”

“Oh, but it’s still perfectly fine for _you_ to put yourself in danger, while I stay back and watch?”

 _“YES!”_ John bellows. “If you still want us to see cases through to arrest, absolutely, yes!” He stops to rub tiredly at his face. “Look Sherlock, none of this is as easy for me as it is for you.”

“Easy? You think that it’s _easy_ for me?”

“Of course it bloody is!” John explodes. “All of it! From inviting me into your bed, to finding out you were pregnant and hiding it from me. Tthe last few weeks... It’s _all_ been easy for you! You’ve never even given a second thought to what it might be like for _me._ ”

“Oh yes— how remiss of me!” Sherlock scoffs icily. “However did I overlook the _exceptional_ difficulty of spending three days stuffing your knot in me, then brewing tea and making toast. Growing a human being inside oneself and every indignity that it entails is nothing compared to _that!_ ”

“That’s _not_ what I mean, you tit!” John breathes harshly through his nose. “I mean I— I can’t just… _not_ _care_ ; like you.”

“Of course I _care._ I realize that you're concerned about your progeny, John, but I can assure you that I am more than capable of looking after myself.”

“Oh you are, are you?” John fumes, squaring his shoulders like a soldier going into battle. “Like getting yourself drugged by Irene Adler? Walloped by Marie Cavendish? That was you doing a bang up job of looking after yourself, hm?”

“Those were exemplary situations!” Sherlock throws his hands upward. He narrows his eyes to slits and draws himself up to his full height to better tower over John. “Don’t presume that you have the right to tell me what I can and cannot do just because I'm carrying your child! As you’re always so quick to remind everyone; _you are_ not _my alpha!”_

John staggers back a step as if the words are a physical blow.

“This isn’t just about the— I'm not _trying_ to control you and I _don't_ think I'm your alpha! _Christ,_ “ he growls in frustration, fingers fisting in his own hair. “I worry about you because I’m in bloody _love_ with you!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to strap in dear readers; this slow burn is about to get doused in gasoline. I think we’ve all suffered more than enough now. There’s going to be a whole lot of sexy times and fluff from here on out. If that is, in fact, not your jam, please proceed to the emergency exits now. 
> 
> And away we go!

“What?” Sherlock chokes out, his heart kicking up a hammering rhythm against his breastbone. It feels a bit as if all the air has been suddenly sucked from the room.

John gapes up at him in complete shock, blood draining from his face as the realization of what he’s just shouted dawn's on him. “That's— that’s not what I meant to say,” he rushes to explain. “I don't— well, I _do—_ but that's _not_ how I meant to tell you.” He lets out a derisive little huff and runs a hand through his hair. “Never meant to tell you _at all,_ actually. Look, Sherlock, this doesn't mean that I... What I said that morning— I meant it. I don’t expect anything from you, and this doesn’t change anything between us, I promise.”

“You're in _love_ ,“ Sherlock blinks owlishly. “With _me?”_

“I…” John flounders for a beat in panic, then closes his eyes and sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping as he scuffs his hand over his face. “Yes. For... well, for a long time now. But you needn’t worry. I can control myse—”

Watching John crumple in on himself in front if him, Sherlock has a blinding moment of clarity: this is his only chance. Right now, this moment; if he lets it slip away, lets John explain it away — retreat back behind his impenetrable fortress of British stoicism — it will never come back again.

Everything he's ever wanted is right here in front of him, and all he needs to do is grasp it.

“I don't want you to,” Sherlock clamours to interrupt.

“Look,” John winces, “it's not something I can just turn off. Believe me, I've tried. But I swear it won’t—”

_No, no— wrong thing to say._

He can see John retreating further and further into himself by the moment— his shoulders tensing and pulling together.

Pulling away from him.

He needs to correct this misunderstanding, and quickly.

“No!” Sherlock yelps, unintentionally loud, and John flinches like a kicked dog. Sherlock flushes scarlet and takes a hesitant step forward, lifting his hands plaintively as he scrambles to explain. ”I meant— I don't want you to control your… feelings. Toward me.” He licks his lips anxiously. ”I would, in fact, very much like for you… _not_  to.”

John’s eyes snap up to meet Sherlock’s.

“Oh.” His eyes widen in surprise at what he sees there. _“Oh.”_

 _Yes._ He’s on the right track now. He just needs to keep going.

_Tell him the truth._

“I, um—” Sherlock hesitates, wetting his lips anxiously. _Oh just say it you bloody idiot_. “I also… return the sentiment.”

 _Oh well done Sherlock,_ Mycroft smirks within his head, _how very eloquent. The good doctor will scarcely be able to resist such poetry._

_Oh, shut up._

“You do?” John licks his lips and stares back at Sherlock in wide-eyed disbelief. _He_ seems entirely unbothered by Sherlock’s somewhat awkward delivery.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes out, finding it suddenly quite impossible to look anywhere other than into the fathomless blue of John’s eyes.

“That’s… um, very good,” John offers haltingly. “Much better than I expected, honestly.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asks, his heart feeling as though it might claw its way out of his chest at any moment. “And what was it, exactly, that you expected?” he whispers, trembling slightly.

“I dunno,” John murmurs. “That you’d laugh at me maybe? Ask me to move out?”

“You always were an idiot.”

_Shit._

He’s just called the man _professing love to him_ an idiot. As nonexistent his experience with this situation may be, he's well aware that is most definitely more than a bit not good.

“That isn’t— I mean… Perha—”

“Oh, _bugger_ this,” John barks a short, sharp laugh. And before Sherlock has so much as a chance to take offense, there’s a warm, compact body pressing in close to his as John surges forward into his personal space. Warm, calloused palms come up to cradle his face as John leans up on tip-toe and presses his lips urgently against Sherlock’s own.

Oh.

 _Oh god,_ yes _._

Sherlock makes a muffled noise of approval against John’s mouth, bringing his own hands up to bury fingers in short, sandy locks. He opens his mouth on a sigh, slipping his tongue out tentatively to trace the soft curve of John’s lower lip once before nipping at the soft flesh in gentle demand. John groans loudly and grants him entry, hands slipping down from Sherlock’s face to fist the lapels of his coat.

He completely loses track of time. If someone were to appear suddenly in the sitting room and ask him just how long they’ve been standing there, desperately devouring one another’s mouths, Sherlock honestly wouldn’t be able to provide an answer.

Months? Years, maybe?

With a sudden surge of _need_ , he collects himself just enough to clumsily back John up against the kitchen door-frame, shifting his stance lower in order to nudge one leg between the alpha’s thighs. John gives a low moan of appreciation before suddenly breaking the kiss.

“Wait,” he gasps, pulling back. Sherlock sways forward in a fruitless attempt to follow and reclaim John’s mouth with his own. John loosens his fingers and spreads them wide against the flat of Sherlock’s chest. “Maybe we shouldn’t, um, dive into anything too hastily.”

“And why shouldn’t we?” Sherlock whines impatiently. “The worst that could possibly happen already has— it isn't as if you can get me pregnant _again_.” He twitches his hips forward to unsubtly press his erection against the even more sizeable one tenting the front of John’s trousers. “Please,” he begs, “please just take me to bed.”

John’s pupils dilate at the suggestion.

“God, yeah, okay,” he pants, nodding frantically as he licks his lips and strains upward again.

It’s an arduous trek to Sherlock’s bedroom from there on out; hands moving to grapple clumsily with one another’s clothes while their mouths stay locked together. There’s a precarious moment, when they both attempt to toe off their shoes and socks at once, that they nearly end up in a tangle on the carpet, but they manage to keep one another upright by pausing to take turns. There’s a crash from somewhere by the dining table when Sherlock sends a shoe flying with a kick, and he pauses with John's earlobe pinched between his teeth as he deliberates whether anything especially concerning has been knocked over.

No; thankfully he'd moved the container of dermestid beetles into the kitchen the day before last; after John had pitched a fit over discovering them atop the stack of books next to his chair, when they’d popped home for a mid-case kip and change of clothes.

Reassured of the lack of impending calamity, he reapplies himself getting John out of his clothes. An encouraging nudge is all it takes to get John wriggling hurriedly out of his jacket, lips hardly straying from Sherlock’s all the while. He starts to do the same before John stops him, slipping his hands up underneath the Belstaff to slowly push the fabric off of Sherlock’s shoulders.

“God,” John mutters as the heavy wool slides off to hit the floor with a satisfying thud. He licks his lips and swallows once before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s collarbone. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Have you?” Sherlock murmurs sotto voce, splaying a hand gently across the back of John’s head to gently press him closer as he tilts his own head back and groans. The very _idea_ of John fantasizing about stripping him makes his skin tingle.

“Yeah,” John breaths against his neck, his hair brushing the underside of Sherlock’s jaw as he gives a minute nod. He works the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt open with a single-minded focus, pushing the fabric aside to thumb a tightly-furled nipple. “And this.”

Sherlock’s mind stutters to a stop.

Which would at least account for why he doesn't feel so much as the slightest shred of embarrassment over the noise that he makes.

“Getting you out of all these posh things,” John carries on as he undoes the shirt’s cuffs and slips it off, helpfully narrating for Sherlock while his brain attempts to reboot. “I didn’t really get to last time. I've dreamt about it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replies dumbly, unable to string something more articulate together through the haze of lust. He gives his head a small shake in an attempt to clear it. “Me too.”

John reaches down and unhooks the fastener of Sherlock’s trousers in a deft one-handed move that makes the blood fairly evaporate in Sherlock’s veins. The wool slithers down his legs to pool on the floor, and he steps out of them seamlessly, keeping his body pressed close to John’s as they make their way across the kitchen floor together.

“Yeah?” The corners of John's lips curl upward in a rakish smile and Sherlock stares, wondering if John's smile tastes any different. Utterly illogical — _why on earth would it? —_ but completely consuming. It dawns on him then; the absolutely glorious realization that he's free to test this hypothesis now, without fear of reproach _._ And so he dips his head to do just that, cutting John off as he asks, “Which bit? Undressing me or the—”

 _“Both,_ ” he growls against John's lips.

He shoves his hands beneath John’s jumper as they kiss, insistently pushing the fuzzy wool upward. When he wrestles it off, only to discover both a button-down and vest beneath, he drops head to rock his forehead against John’s with an entirely different sort of groan than before.

“Must you always insist on so many layers? It feels uncannily as though I’m unstacking a Russian nesting doll.”

“I hope that’s not a reference to the size of anything you’re expecting to find underneath my clothes.”

“Well, ” Sherlocks hums thoughtfully, tugging the shirt free of John’s jeans before setting to work on it’s buttons. “You are rather delightfully compact.”

His fingers pause for the briefest of instants as he mentally goggles at his own flirtatiousness.

 _Where the devil did_ that _come from?_

_Ah yes, of course._

_This,_ he accuses the the wanton little omega fairly slavering away inside of himself, _is_ all _you._

“Oi!” John protests light-heartedly, jarring him back to attention.

“Mm, don’t worry,” he reassures the alpha with a chuckle, reaching down to palm his groin. “Not _all_ of you.”

Whilst John shrugs out of his shirt and yanks his vest off over his head, Sherlock works his belt and flies open, impatiently pushing the trousers off his hips mid-shuffle without any consideration for the potential hazard. Sure enough, as the fabric slips down to bunch around his knees, John trips almost immediately; pitching sideways in an attempt to avoid knocking Sherlock over as he falls. He catches himself on the worktop, leaning back against it with a laugh when Sherlock loses no time sinking to his knees to wrestle the jeans down and over John’s feet.

Once the offending garment has been sent careening across the linoleum, Sherlock redirects his attention to the far more interesting subject of the prominent bulge straining the fabric of John’s pants. He leans in to rub his face against it, catlike, then mouths over the the tip through the cotton while John gasps above him.

He angles his gaze upward as he hooks his fingers in the waistband, then tugs it over the jut of John’s erection and down his thighs. The moment there's nothing to restrain it, it springs forward, bobbing eagerly in the air in front of Sherlock’s face.

He gives a pleased hum and wraps one long-fingered hand around the base of it, giving it a solitary stroke before leaning in. He keeps his eyes fixed on John's as he laves his tongue wetly up from his fingers to over the head before taking it into his mouth. John chokes and bows forward over Sherlock’s head slightly in surprised pleasure, his eyes falling shut with a hiss.

After only a few long, slow pulls of Sherlock’s mouth, John moans loudly, then reaches down to try and dislodge the omega. Sherlock protests with a moan, pushing his mouth further down onto John’s length and tightening his fingers on the alpha’s hips. “We’re not going to - _ah_ \- make it to bed if you keep that up,” John gasps, urgently clutching the worktop with white-knuckled hands, and Sherlock pulls himself off with a wet slurp.

“That would be entirely unacceptable,” Sherlock offers with a smug grin as he pulls John's pants the rest of the way down his legs, skimming his fingers over the soft bristle of golden hairs that dust his muscular calves.

“Thought it might be,” John agrees wryly as he reaches down and hauls Sherlock back to his feet.

“I did find it curiously arousing to perform the act on you here in the kitchen however,” Sherlock muses with a careless swipe of his hand across his mouth. “We’ll need to revisit it another time.”

“I’m pretty amenable to that," John agrees. He plants his hands against Sherlock’s chest and begins guiding him backward into the hall. He pushes up on his toes to press their lips together again, slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth the moment it opens for him. A beat later, he chuckles low and dirty into the kiss; the burble bursting effervescent across Sherlock’s tongue like a fizzy drink. He lets out a moan of delight at the sensation — he's never tasted anyone's _laugh_ before — just before John pulls back to giggle; “Never thought I'd willingly agree to let you experiment on me.”

“Well, the parameters of the experiment _do_ seem more to your taste than usual.” Sherlock offers as dryly as he can manage, only to see John’s face light up with mirth; his laughter sounding out an encore as they reach the end of the hall. John presses Sherlock up against his bedroom door to kiss him again, running his hands down along Sherlock’s ribs to clutch at his hips. Once he’s snogged Sherlock well and truly breathless, he trails his lips down to mouth along the taller man’s jawline.

“Christ,” he growls, scraping his teeth against the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw, “I just want to _devour_ you.”

“You,” Sherlock pants encouragingly, slouching down to give John better access, “can do anything you’d like with me.” He fumbles blindly behind himself to open the door without interrupting the especially delightful thing that John is doing with his tongue.

“That’s a very dangerous offer to make,” John whispers roughly against the shell of Sherlock’s ear as they’re swallowed up by the dark of the bedroom.

“And here I am,” Sherlock quips, slipping a hand back down between them. The hiss that John lets out when his fingers make contact with their target is intensely gratifying. “I trust you,” he adds impulsively, pressing a tender kiss against the meat of John's shoulder.

John maneuvers them unerringly to the bed somehow, despite the lack of light to guide him, spilling Sherlock backward onto it with a gentle push. He laughs delightedly as he hits the mattress with a bounce, scrambling backward on the sheets to sprawl lengthwise across the bed. John follows with a cheeky grin, clambering up onto the bed on all fours to crawl over the long lines of Sherlock’s body, smearing kisses over the miles of smooth, pale skin as he goes. He stops at Sherlock’s chest on his way up, running his tongue over one pebbled nipple before sealing his mouth over it and sucking hard. Sherlock jolts, letting out a terribly undignified yelp at the unexpected stab of pain, and John jerks away instantly.

“Shit, sorry, did that—“ John stammers apologetically, pulling his hand back to hover above Sherlock's chest. Sherlock blinks in surprise; he distinctly recalls that being a remarkably _pleasurable_ sensation, the last time they found themselves in bed together. He grimaces and nods, rubbing his fingers over the smarting nub. The unpleasant ache beneath his fingertips brings him crashing back to the reality of his changing body.

“They’re, ah, a bit tender,” he begrudgingly admits.

“Oh,” understanding blooms in John's voice. “Because of the…” He drops his gaze to Sherlock’s midsection.

“Yes,” Sherlock grits out, fixing his own eyes on the hairline cracks in the plaster ceiling to avoid John’s as he feels the distinct tingle of a blush creep across his cheeks.

“Before,” John shifts above him and ventures hesitantly, “in the kitchen, when I touched it… you seemed fine.”

“I _was_ fine,” Sherlock barks back, his arousal quickly shrivelling up in the face of his mortification.

“Oh. So then… this,” John dips his head to press his lips back against the nipple in a featherlight kiss, “is alright?”

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat at the tenderness of the gesture.

“Yes,” he chokes out. “That’s— good.”

John hums happily in reply, kissing and lapping delicately at the hard bud until Sherlock is panting and twisting his shoulders against the mattress in a silent plea for the alpha to apply the same treatment to the other one. When he does just that, Sherlock keens; cradling John’s head between his hands and threading his fingers through his hair as best he can.

Once John finally makes his way all the way up, he stretches out along Sherlock’s side, bracing himself on an elbow and leaving one leg draped possessively over the omega’s thigh.

“God, you beautiful thing,” he declares, reverently cupping Sherlock's face with one palm. “Just look at you.”

“Rather difficult to do so without a mirror,” Sherlock replies, arching coquettishly and turning his face to mouth at John’s palm.

“Cheeky,” John chides, then presses two fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, groaning deeply when Sherlock takes them eagerly and rolls his tongue around them. “ _Fuuuck._ ”

Sherlock slips John’s fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

“Yes, please,” He grasps John’s hand in his own and drags it down between his legs where he’s aching for his touch. John smiles and obligingly strokes his fingers through the slickness he finds there.

“You want my fingers?” He asks, dipping the digits in question inside shallowly, the sound of his breath harsh in the quiet of the bedroom. Sherlock nods feverishly and squirms, not trusting his voice. The arousal is different now than it was during his heat — like the difference between being a bit squiffy and dead sober — but he still _wants._

_Badly._

And John does too, if the moan that he lets out when he presses two fingers deep inside of Sherlock’s body is anything to go by.

He twists them, pulling them out slightly before pushing back in again, crooking them in a come-hither motion as he does. Sherlock moans, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden flood of pleasure. It’s almost too much; red-hot sparks of pleasure crackling along his nerve endings, making the soles of his feet tingle with heat and toes curl. When he convulsively moves to press his thighs together, John hooks a leg around his calf, pinning it down and holding him open. The move makes him gasp and arch, throwing one arm out over John’s flank to clutch at it encouragingly.

John shifts slightly beside him, bringing his head in close and resting his temple against Sherlock’s curls.

“No arguments against foreplay this time I see,” John chuckles, his breath a warm puff against Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“N-no,” Sherlock shakes his head slightly.

“Good,” John whispers roughly. “I like making you feel good.” He presses his lips to Sherlock’s temple. “Now, I want you to do something for me,” John murmurs. “Do you think you can manage that?” Sherlock turns his face up to blink at him with lust-addled eyes.

_Yes, of course— he’s been rather selfishly neglecting John since the kitchen, hasn’t he?_

“Anything,” he breathes.

“Can you touch yourself, love?” John smiles, gesturing with his chin down to where Sherlock’s cock lies twitching against his stomach. “Can you do that for me?”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s pupils dilate even further and he licks his lips. “Yes.”

He wraps a hand around himself and hisses, his hips immediately bucking involuntarily upward.

“Good,” John croons approvingly, rocking his own erection against Sherlock’s hip in a leisurely motion. He works his fingers inside of Sherlock faster. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes _,_ ” Sherlock whines, stroking himself frantically.

“You’re doing so good.”

“ _Oh God,”_ Sherlock cries, jerking his hand away from his cock as if burned, very nearly climaxing at John’s whispered praise. He breathes hard, twisting one hand in the bedsheet and squeezing John’s thigh in the other as he wills himself back from the edge. “Now,” he demands, tugging insistently against John’s body. “I want you in me now.”

“Bossy,” John giggles, even as he slips his fingers out and scrambles to oblige.

Sherlock spreads his legs welcomingly and John settles between them, with a contented sigh into Sherlock’s mouth. He reaches down between their bodies to guide himself into place, rubbing his cock over the wet slit a few times, before finally pushing forward to sink in with a deep groan.

Sherlock cries out, digging his fingers into the soft skin of John’s nape. He wraps his legs tightly about the alpha’s middle, as high as they'll go, desperately trying to tilt his hips up for a better angle. John wrestles Sherlock’s left leg up and drapes it over his elbow, planting his hand on the mattress next to Sherlock’s ribs for leverage as he picks up the speed of his thrusts. The stretch makes Sherlock’s breath judder out of him in short bursts with every snap of John's hips.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John pants urgently after a short while, the frantic pace of his thrusts growing shaky and uneven. “It's been too long... I’m gonna—“ He grimaces, and bites his lip, a deep flush staining his face ruddy. Three more hard thrusts and his body tenses, hips stuttering to a jerky stop. He tucks his face into Sherlock’s neck with a sob, arms trembling as his hips make tiny involuntary twitches forward. Sherlock feels the accompanying gush of heat inside himself and moans brokenly, sinking his teeth into the curve of shoulder beneath his lips.

Just as he’s about to begin shifting restlessly beneath John's body, the alpha pulls away abruptly, leaving him unpleasantly empty and bereft. He whines in protest, But John merely offers him a cheeky grin before slipping down over the edge of the mattress, and dropping to his knees on the floor.

“What—“ Sherlock raises his head from the mattress, blinking in confusion for a moment before the alpha suddenly grabs hold of his hips. He lets out an undignified yelp of surprise, scrabbling at the bedsheets as John bodily drags him to the edge of the bed.

He pushes Sherlock’s knees apart, draping them up over his shoulders before he unceremoniously slides three fingers in from where he’d just withdrawn— where Sherlock is swollen and wet and open; dripping with their combined fluids. He sets a rhythm immediately, twisting and wriggling them in a manner that makes Sherlock's brain short out. Sherlock drops his head back with an animal moan, spine arching wildly as wet heat closes around his cock.

“Oh” he gasps approvingly. He struggles to make his tongue work. “That’s, um, good. Very, very… _good_.”

John pauses and pulls back just enough to lap at the head of Sherlock's cock as he asks teasingly, “You sure? I could stop.”

The only response is a firm hand against the back of head, pressing him down again.

Sherlock’s last coherent thought is that the only thing more delightful than the _taste_ of laughter is the absolutely _sinful_ sensation of it around one’s prick.

 

* * *

 

Much later, they lie tangled up together in the bed linens, listening to the sounds of London filtering in through the open window. The duvet is lost somewhere on the floor, entirely unneeded and unmissed thanks to the lingering heat between their bodies.

John props himself up on one elbow so that he can gaze down at Sherlock, lying stretched out alongside him, entirely unashamed of his nakedness. He reaches out in wonderment to stroke a gentle hand over the small, firm swell of Sherlock’s abdomen, made all the more noticeable by his supine sprawl.

“I still can't believe you've got our baby in there. I mean, I _know_ , but it's just so… amazing.” He shuffles down the bed a ways and wraps one arm about Sherlock’s hip, leaning in to hover his mouth just above the bump. “Hello Baby,” he whispers cheerfully.

“It can’t quite hear you yet,” Sherlock smiles down from his pillow, lifting his right hand to rest it softly over John’s forearm, tracing his fingertips in nonsensical patterns over warm skin. “According to my research, fetuses don’t generally begin to hear sound until around 18 weeks, and it isn’t until roughly 20 that they begin to respond to distinct voices.”

“Mm, I know. And thank God for that,” John chuckles, giving the soft skin beneath his mouth a nuzzle before he tilts his head to grin cheekily up at Sherlock. “I’d rather not imagine that it could hear us carrying on the last hour or so.”

Sherlock gives a low rumble of laughter beneath John. “No,” he agrees with a merry twinkle in his eye, “that would be _quite_ indecent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Everytime I attempt to write smut, it’s like mental gymnastics— where are all the limbs? Is everyone staying where they belong or have they magically materialised somewhere they shouldn't have? How’d that hand get there? (Am I the only one who has this bizzare hang up?) If you read this and thought something seemed off about the *cough* mechanics, it might be because of my personal take on Omegaverse. If you’re especially particular, or are interested in that sort of thing, you can read all my ridiculously over-thought worldbuilding [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10247150/chapters/22723883). 
> 
> Thank you as always to my lovely beta Miss_Communication! Just knowing she’s going to read things has honestly made me work that much harder to write better, and I’m so grateful!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise- this hasn't been abandoned! Unbetaed because I also wanted to surprise the lovely Miss_Communication, who’s put up with all my erraticness throughout this thing.
> 
> The working title of this chapter was “Shag City", nuff said. (And fair warning— we’re cutting straight to the chase right out of the gate.)

Once they’ve gotten their hands — and mouths — on one another, they just can’t seem to stop. Sherlock would be inclined to say that it’s an entirely untenable state of affairs, but… it really couldn’t have come at a better time. With the onset of his second trimester, the less than pleasant effect of morning sickness finally subsides, and in its place he feels increasingly, well… _randy._

His entire body positively hums with it; the constant, shivery need to be taken and filled itching beneath his skin.

Thankfully John is more than amenable to assuaging the ache.

For the first time that he can remember, a lull between cases is a boon rather than a curse. At every opportunity they spend hours in bed together, whiling away the days touching and tasting and exploring.

 _Laughing_.

He's always known about the biological reactions of physical intimacy; the fluids, orgasms, the rush of endorphins. But, until now, he’d never realized how _fun_ sex could be.

No longer forced to content himself with mere fantasties of John's body, he spends tireless hours reacquainting himself with the warm planes of it, so often hidden away under deceptive grandfatherly jumpers. While John isn’t quite as fit as he’d once been in his army days (there are several substantiating photographs squirrelled away in his mind palace, discovered while casually perusing John’s belongings early in their cohabitation, that have admittedly featured heavily in Sherlock's wanking fantasies) he’s hardly let himself go.

Sprinting through the backstreets of London after criminals does tend to keep one in shape.

Even so, when he pulls his favourite image of then-John to the forefront of his mind — young, and shirtless, laughing up at the camera from the floor of a barracks, his abdominal muscles taut, hard, and sheened with sweat — Sherlock finds he quite prefers the softened edges of John’s form today.

They invite touch.

He’s drawn to the slight layer of cushioning over John’s belly as if magnetically; hands unable to resist stroking, mouth unable to resist nuzzling. It feels perfect beneath his cheek (firm but somewhat yielding) when he pillows his head on it as they lie in bed, John rhythmically petting his curls until he drifts off to sleep.

And when they’re tangled together, with John buried deep inside of him and his own cock trapped between the sweaty press of their bodies, rubbing against that soft, warm curve of flesh...

_Well._

Suffice it to say, he’s a fan.

Which is precisely how they find themselves well and truly _in flagrante_ on the sitting room sofa one rainy Thursday afternoon— what had started off as playful petting having quickly devolved into something rather more.

“That’s it,” John encourages, massaging Sherlock’s quivering thighs and the curve of his hips as the Omega rides him. “There you go, just like that, love. Work yourself on my cock for me.”

Sherlock shudders with arousal at the explicit instruction and it’s juxtaposition with John's usual propriety, a bloom of heat twinging low in his belly as he rolls his hips downward in a slow grind. The motion makes the blunt head of John’s cock rub _just so_ somewhere deep inside of him and he keens, squeezing his eyes shut against the overload of sensation. John takes the sound as an invitation to still his hips entirely, letting out a breathy chuckle when Sherlock whines in response, shifting restlessly in his lap in hopes of encouraging him to start moving again.

“Ah ah ah, none of that now,” John chides playfully, voice roughened with lust. “If you want it, you’re going to have to work for it.”

Sherlock whimpers plaintively, and gives a jerky shake of his head, tiny beads of sweat rolling down from hairline with the motion. “I _can’t_ ,” he begs, “I can’t— _please_ _John!”_

They’ve been at it for what feels like _hours_ , John refusing to do little more than press his hips up slightly at the very peak of penetration, forcing Sherlock to do all the work to get himself off. It’s the most torturous, _delicious_ thing that John’s ever subjected him to; slowly driving him mad in the best way possible.

“Of course you can,” John soothes, thumbs rubbing tiny circles against Sherlock’s heated skin. “You can do anything you set that brilliant mind of yours to. Come on now, love.”

Sweat sheens on Sherlock’s torso, and his curls stick to his damp brow. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and resumes moving, clutching desperately at John’s shoulders as he does.

“That’s right gorgeous,” John hums approvingly, and slides his hand up Sherlock’s thigh as he manages a particularly deep roll of his hips, wrapping steady doctor’s fingers around Sherlock’s straining erection. “You’re doing marvellous.”

“ _I’msoclose_ ,” Sherlock pleads, digging his fingers into John’s shoulders. His knee squeaks against the leather of the sofa cushion as he shifts to spread his legs just a fraction wider and take the Alpha even deeper.

“Is that right?” John questions. “Come on then love, come for me.” He pulls Sherlock close, mouthing at the sweat-damp column of the his throat, fingers working rhythmic and insistent on Sherlock’s cock. “ _Come.”_

With a cry, Sherlock does just that; grinding down into John’s lap hard; chasing every last ounce of sensation. John squeezes his hips and pulls him down even further, driving up into him hard and fast. A handful of vigorous thrusts are all it takes before he too is gasping with completion. His knot swells slightly; nothing like during a heat, but just enough to make Sherlock feel pleasantly full.

Sherlock slumps down against his chest, and John pets his back clumsily as they both struggle to catch their breath.

 _“Good_ _God,_ ” a horrified voice announces from the doorway. Sherlock lazily peers over his shoulder to where Mycroft stands with a hand splayed over his eyes. “Do you not have a perfectly serviceable bedroom in which to engage in this sort of thing?”

“Fuck,” John starts beneath Sherlock as he registers their audience, clamouring to snatch the afghan from the arm of the sofa to cover them with. Sherlock remains unruffled; rising languidly from John’s lap with nothing more than a slight hiss as John’s semi-swollen knot tugs free of his body. He plucks his dressing gown from the floor and shrugs into it.

“But it’s far more diverting to defile the sitting room, brother mine,” he offers smugly as he belts the robe shut over the small swell of his midsection.

“Well, that’s that cat out of the bag then,” John sighs, running a hand sheepishly through his sweaty hair.

“Don’t be absurd John,” Sherlock scoffs, unable to resist smiling at the well-shagged picture John makes: rumpled and flushed, the hasty drape of the afghan across his lap leaving very little to the imagination. He'd almost be jealous of sharing the sight, if he weren't utterly certain of Mycroft's complete lack of interest in… well, any of that. “Mycroft's known since practically the moment we fell back into bed together.”

“What, really?” John goggles incredulously, shame entirely forgotten in his surprise.

Mycroft settles into John’s chair with a shrug. “Even if _you_ hadn't been dreadfully transparent about it, Sherlock hasn’t made any effort to hide it. As the most pressing reason for my concern has already come to pass, it hardly seemed my business.” He offers a prim, strained smile that resembles nothing so much as a grimace. “Something about barn doors and horses springs to mind.”

John barks a laugh, and looks to Sherlock.

“I just thought maybe you didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Why?” He asks, utterly confused. He honestly can’t think of why he’d want to hide this. _John Watson_ wants him. _Loves_ him. If he could he’d shout it from the rooftops. He's _incandescently_ happy. “It isn’t as if I have anything to be ashamed of. Every imbecile on this planet gets to flaunt their poor romantic choices. Why shouldn’t I be proud of getting the best of the lot?“

He knows he’s said just the right thing when a bright smile blooms across John’s face, and he basks in the glow of it like summer sunshine.

“Right,” John says, his expression more warm and open than Sherlock’s ever seen it. “Well, I’m going to, uh…” He waves a hand over himself then rises from the couch, carefully wrapping the afghan around his waist as he does, and begins collecting the rumpled clothing scattered over the floor and coffee table. “And then, tea?”

“Please,” Mycroft responds encouragingly with averted eyes.

John disappears into the kitchen, openly making his way toward _their_ bedroom now that there’s no need for the pretence of going to the one upstairs. Sherlock shifts on his feet as he watches him go and grimaces when he feels a trickle of fluid creep down his inner thigh. He opens his mouth to announce his own departure to the bath just as his eyes alight on his brother’s face.

He just barely manages to hold back his laughter at Mycroft’s mask of barely controlled revulsion. Of course! He’d forgotten entirely how overpowering the mixed scents of their copulation must be to Mycroft’s unaccustomed nose.

“Perhaps you too might consider making yourself more... presentable,” Mycroft suggests, nostrils twitching as he visibly struggles to keep his face impassive.

“Oh no,” Sherlock offers a fiendish grin as he snatches one of his newly arrived forensic journals from John’s side table, then settles into his armchair. Dealing with a bit of a sticky mess later is well worth the delight of making Mycroft hideously uncomfortable now. “I’m _fine._ ”

Mycroft narrows his eyes but doesn't comment further. The sound of water rushing through the pipes in the loo echoes in the quiet of the flat.

“I spoke with Mummy yesterday,” Mycroft breaks the silence. “I couldn't help but note you haven't yet shared your happy announcement with her.”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Sherlock drawls back without looking up as he flips a page with deliberate disinterest.

“Have you any particular reason for that?” Mycroft questions primly. “She’ll be ever so surprised— and delighted, I'm sure. It's certainly nothing we ever expected _._ ”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Sherlock looks up with a scowl, falling victim to the baiting despite himself.

“You know perfectly well. All this blissful domesticity— hardly what anyone expected of _you_ of all people. Father would have been _so_ pleased.” Mycroft pauses for effect, casting a disparaging eye around the room. “Well, to see you finally settled at least.”

“I'm going to shower,” Sherlock announces abruptly, tossing aside his periodical and vaulting from his seat. His brother smiles snidely as he sweeps past, the gleam of triumph in his eye bright and undisguised

_Point one — Mycroft._

 

* * *

 

“A boy,” John grins radiantly down at the ultrasound photo in his hands as they step into the flat. From his far-away expression, it's clear that he’s already picturing their son in his mind's eye; trying to cobble together an image of what he might look like from their own features. Though he’d never admit to it, Sherlock’s spent a not-insignificant number of hours doing the same over the past few months, so he can hardly fault him. They’ll find out soon enough in any case. He looks up at Sherlock with a dreamy-eyed smile. “We’re going to need to start thinking about names.”

”There’s no need,” Sherlock informs him dismissively as he hangs his coat and scarf. ”We’ve had one for ages.”

“Oh? Is that so?” John chuckles good-naturedly as Sherlock makes his way over to his armchair and drapes himself over it in a careless flop of limbs. “Care to let me in on it?”

“Hamish.” Sherlock announces offhandedly, and John scrunches his face in surprise as he shrugs out of his own jacket.

“ _Hamish?_ As in my middle name?’

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums the affirmative.

“Why on earth would you want to saddle the poor lad with that?”

“You were the one who suggested it.”

“I most definitely did _not_. We haven't even _discussed_ names until now! You were talking to me while I was out again, weren't you?”

“No,” Sherlock contends, “you were undoubtedly present. During Ms. Adler’s unexpected visit.”

John stares at him blankly. _Good God, after all the fuss he kicked up over her, does he honestly not recall her?_

“ _Irene_ Adler?” He prompts. _“The_ _Woman?”_

“Yeah, no,” John grouses, “trust me, I remember her. But you must have imagined it when I was out at the pub. I didn’t even know you were expecting then! Why on earth would I have been…”

“You suggested Hamish, if I was looking for baby names. Well,” Sherlock waves his hand toward his abdomen, as if exhibiting an important piece of evidence. “It just so happened that I was.”

“Wait,” John scrunches his face endearingly as something like recollection finally makes it's appearence. “Do you mean when the two of you were making eyes at one another here in the sitting room?”

“I wasn't wasn’t _making eyes_ at her,” Sherlock protests, “but yes.”

John gapes at him.

“Sherlock! That’s not— I was… I was basically throwing a wobbly! I was sure the two of you were about to shag right there in front on me on the rug. I wasn't being _serious!”_

“Well too bad. I like it.” Sherlock informs him roundly. “And as I’m the one who’s traipsing about looking increasingly like some sort of land-based beluga, I feel I have the most sway over the decision.”

John laughs at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he snorts in amusement.

“Alright, fair enough— though I'd like to say, for the record, that you look absolutely nothing like a whale,” he grins. “But maybe we could pick a little less of a stuffy middle name for the little mite at least?”

Sherlock frowns.

“Why would we do that? Middle names are little more than a ridiculous contrivance of the upper classes to parade about their lineage and garner as much favour as possible to pad their inheritances with. And the practice of calling children by their middle names when they have a perfectly serviceable given name, which is exactly what you have in mind, is absurd.”

John leans against the kitchen doorframe and levels a long look at him. “Oh, okay then,” he agrees dryly, “ _William.”_

Sherlock looks up, aghast. “How did you find that out?”

“You're not the only one who knows how to snoop,” he replies cagily, pinning the sonogram printout to the refrigerator door with a magnet.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “You asked Mycroft,” he announces.

John shrugs easily, caught out. “I asked Mycroft,” he confirms.

“That's _different_ ,” Sherlock argues. “William is just so— so— pedestrian! Do you know what my father liked to call me? _”_ He screws up his face in abhorrence and spits the offending moniker: _“Billy.”_

“My heart weeps for you,” John fires back dryly. “But take it from me— Hamish isn’t any better. You can’t even shorten it! And then you have this tiny baby with a name that makes him sound like he’s ninety. At the very least, if you’re going to insist on something so ridiculously old fashioned, you could choose something with a decent byname!”

“What exactly do you propose then? Are we meant to choose a name that’s proportional to his physical size?” Sherlock sneers. “Do we add letters as he grows?

“No,” John argues back mulishly. “But I _propose_ we call him something that doesn’t make him sound like he’s my surly old Granddad down from Edinburgh. I’m not suggesting we call him something ridiculous! Just something nice, and simple, Like… like… oh, I don’t know — _Alfie_.”

They lock stares stubbornly, glaring at one another across the room.

“Fine!” Sherlock throws his hands up in the air. “You can choose some unbearably common middle name for him. Like _that._ That would be passably acceptable.”

“I'm glad you've seen reason,” John beams, crossing the room to perch on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock grunts, but tilts his head slightly into the kiss.

“Though you know, Alfie is the diminutive form of Alfred, which I’d like to point out is just as ‘stuffy’ as—”

“ _Just_ Alfie.” John states firmly, ducking down to nip at the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock gasps and leans back, stretching out his neck invitingly for further attention.

“His last name will have to be Holmes unfortunately,” Sherlock adds a bit breathlessly as John takes the invitation as intended. “But perhaps Mycroft can be persuaded agree to a hyphenation. If our son is going to be burdened with an excess of initials it may as well serve some purpose.”

“Mmm,” John murmurs against the pale arch of muscle, as his fingers come up to work open the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. He slips off the arm of the chair to kneel on the floor, rearranging Sherlock’s sprawled limbs for better access to his body. “You're really determined to put your brother's goodwill to the test aren't you?”

Sherlock grins widely and arches coquettishly beneath John’s attentions.

“Always.”

 

* * *

 

Weeks later, as much as he tries to forget them, Mycroft’s words continue to linger in his mind. He lies awake some nights (John would disapprove— say that he and the baby both need their rest) listening to the soothing susurrus of John's breathing beside him in the dark, feeling the heavy weight of the Alpha’s arm slung low over his middle, and the flutter of movement just beneath his bellybutton (their child is clearly similarly intent upon defying their father).

And in his whole life he's never felt so…content.

If his father were still alive, he’d be quick to point out how Sherlocks satisfaction happens to lie in finally fulfilling his 'natural' role as an Omega. But this is nothing like the small, stifling box that his father had wanted to enclose him in.

In that reality his father would have nothing to point out, because he’d have long been married to some fop from the ‘right’ family; forced to birth the idiot's brats and play the role of proper society spouse. He wouldn't be here at Baker Street, wouldn’t have the Work, wouldn't have _John_.

Just the thought makes him shudder.

No. This— this is is nothing at all like he ever imagined. He’d always assumed that giving himself to an Alpha would be a surrender: a loss of self, a subjugation. But with John it’s anything but. Rather than a master he has a _partner_. A conductor of light, who helps him see more, who runs at his side and protects him and appreciates him as he is.

And their child.

It’s amazing when he thinks about it; the fact that his body, this very moment, is creating life.

What he’d always thought would be horrifying instead fills him with wonder and affection. No matter what happens, he and John will always be connected to one another by this thread; this new life that they’ve created together.

It doesn’t seem possible: a career, a mate who accepts him as he is, a child he never thought to want but now cannot wait to meet.

Everything all at once.

He can’t help feeling as though he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

* * *

 

Of course, for all that it's fulfilling and awe-inspiring it’s also marvelously uncomfortable. More and more so with every passing day; the discomfort expanding in direct proportion to his waistline.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade exclaims when he appears in their doorway one morning after breakfast. “Did that appear overnight?”

“Hmm, what?” Sherlock looks up distractedly from his phone, thoroughly immersed in a rather fascinating case study of a Norwegian woman, born with Mulhauersons syndrome and assigned Beta male at birth due to ambiguous sex characteristics, who’d later identified as an Alpha female. He follows Lestrade’s gaze down to the newly noticeable swell of his abdomen beneath his worn t-shirt, and gives an annoyed eye-roll. “Oh. Yes, might as well have done.”

“I wouldn’t draw attention to that if I were you,” John chimes in as he emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Finally had to admit defeat and start to replace his wardrobe, seeing as how every piece is tailored within an inch of its life. His Nibs was terribly affronted.”

“Oh lord, I can only imagine the strop.”

“I _am_ sitting right here you know.” he points out with a scowl as John collects their empty mugs and plates from the side tables.

“Indeed you are love,” John presses a kiss to the crown of his head in passing on his way back to the kitchen. “In all your delightfully rounded glory.”

Sherlock scowls as Lestrade guffaws.

“Oh!” John exclaims as soon as he re-enters the kitchen. “We had our second sonogram last week. Want to see?”

“Absolutely!” Lestrade grins. “Lets see the little terror in the making.”

“It’s a boy,” John announces proudly as he brandishes the glossy little square.

“Well, would you look at that,” Lestrade marvels, tracing their son’s profile with one fingertip. “Looking like a proper person already. He's got your nose Sherlock. Everything alright?”

“Well, he’s a bit on the big side apparently,” John gives his own nose a scratch. “Lord knows where he gets _that_ from. The doctor wants to do some more tests farther along since we still have a ways to go, but she said with his size we may need to consider a c-section. Otherwise though, everything looks good.”

Sherlock squirms unhappily in his chair at the reminder of the unpleasantness of the appointment in question. He'd thought it slightly uncomfortable being examined by Sarah, but _that_ experience could scarcely hold a candle to their visit to the prestigious clinic on Harley Street that Mycroft had insisted upon.

Being poked and prodded at by the prim Beta doctor who'd muttered under her breath as she took an increasing number of measurements, and had addressed John almost exclusively, as if Sherlock were little more than a houseplant. When she _had_ finally deigned to speak to him, it had been only to deliver a patronizing little pat to his knee while she assured him that his Alpha Familiae would surely be delighted by the “sturdy little chap” of an heir that Sherlock was providing him with, despite any potential delivery complications. He'd nearly bit his own tongue in half holding back the scathing dressing down he’d wanted to, but promised he wouldn't, deliver.

Clearly the doctor, John, and now even Lestrade think nothing of it; but deep down, he can't deny the niggling sense of failure over the issue. He's such a miserable excuse for an Omega that he may be unable to bring his son into the world the proper way.

Absurd really, considering that he's never given a toss about meeting any sort of expectations as an Omega before. Hormones, obviously.

“Did you have a _reason_ for bursting into our flat at this hour, or did you drop in just to chat?” Sherlock glowers up at the DI.

“Right! Yeah,” Lestrade grins and fishes a thick folder out of the plastic carryall dangling from his arm. “We think we had fresh lead pop up on this cold case. Was thinking you could take a look.”

“Mm,” Sherlock murmurs noncommittally as he accepts the file.

“Oh! And these,” Lestrade adds, digging into the bag again to pull out a number of salt and vinegar crisp packets. “John said you've been absolutely barmy for them lately. And they had them on offer when I nipped into Tesco Express for lunch.”

The DI piles the packets on the side table next to Sherlock with a grin, then shrugs out of his coat and tosses it over one of the dining chairs before venturing off into the kitchen. Sherlock waits until he's well occupied with discussing the latest rugby upset with John before furtively snaking out a hand to snatch one from the heap.

 

* * *

 

He expects John to tire of their newfound bed habits as he grows larger and more cumbersome, but the Alpha surprises him. It isn’t until late into his sixth month, and a murmured conversation while they’re in the midst of making love that he finally realizes just what it is that’s going on.

John has him on his side in bed in an effort to accommodate his ever-increasing bulk, pressing close and driving into his body from behind.

“More,” he gasps into his pillow as John snaps his hips forward relentlessly. “Please, more.”

“You're just insatiable aren't you?” John pants, reaching around to palm the smooth globe of his belly for a moment before slipping his hand further down to tug teasingly at Sherlock’s cock.

“Yes,” Sherlock wobbles his head in a frantic approximation of a nod and sobs, completely overwhelmed by the dual sensations. He rocks his hips forward into John's hands before needily pushing back again onto his cock.

“I suppose I’ve no choice but to try and meet your demands, Mr. Holmes,” John growls. He hitches Sherlock’s top leg higher and diligently sets to the task of dismantling Sherlock’s higher thought processes entirely.

He’s extremely successful.

Much later though, once John is snoring peacefully and Sherlock’s regained his mental faculties, he turns the words over obsessively in his head.

 _I suppose I’ve_ no choice _but to try and meet_ your _demands._

His stomach churns and he feels sick. _Of_ course _John has only been humoring him; why else would he be interested in a fat, waddling Omega?_ Beside him, John snuffles closer, instinctively seeking out the curve of Sherlock's neck in his sleep and tucking his face into it. Sherlock flinches away, slipping out from underneath the arm slung over his middle to turn his back toward the Alpha, curling into as tight a ball as the baby allows.

He doesn't sleep a wink all night.

 

* * *

 

It’s child’s play avoiding John’s touch after that. Whenever John reaches for him he only need pretend to suddenly remember an experiment he needs check on, or some other urgent task and whirl away. Every time John merely sighs or offers a tight smile, but tellingly doesn't push the matter in the slightest. Sherlock imagines he must be relieved by the reprieve, though perhaps unsure of any other pending consequences.

The days crawl by with little more than a few brushes of lips, passing touches to his belly and a brief clasp of fingers between them.

It's _awful_.

His body's grown used to John’s, and all the lovely things that it does to it. But he grits his teeth and follows through, refusing to allow John to continue to slavishly subject himself to his selfish desires. No— he’s above such neediness and physicality. He's lasted years without John's touch, and is perfectly capable of abstaining from it again until he's returned to a less ungainly state. It’s all just transport after all.

And so his campaign continues on swimmingly for an entire week, until it’s abruptly and spectacularly run aground.

John arrives home unexpectedly early from his shift at the surgery, and immediately bustles him out of the flat with a sly grin. Angelo is clearly expecting them when they arrive, and Sherlock huffs with feigned annoyance over the fuss the man makes over his bump, while inside his Omega preens. It’s… well, it's _lovely_ — sharing conversation and a delicious meal in the warm glow of candlelight. He feels a twinge of melancholy as it inevitably draws to a close and they head home. But then, when they arrive, John insists he pick something to watch on the telly, promptly hauls Sherlock's feet into his lap as soon as they sprawl out on the sofa, and sets to liquefying the detective with an absolutely heavenly foot massage.

He'd always thought himself entirely indifferent to romance, but this simple, affectionate intimacy is something else entirely. When the programme ends and they head to their room after switching off the lights, it’s harder than ever to shy way from John's searching hands when the Alpha presses close and nuzzles into his collarbone as they prepare for bed.

“What's the matter?” John frowns, trying again to slip his hands beneath the hem of Sherlock’s oversized sleepshirt.

“Nothing,” Sherlock insists as he tugs the cotton down self-consciously over his expanding belly, and turns away under the pretence of folding down the bed linens. “You don't have to— I'll be fine.”

But John is persistent this time around.

“Hey,” he tucks his hand just inside the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms to rest on his bare hip and gently turns the Omega back toward him. “You've been standoffish with me all week. If you're just not in the mood, that's fine, but did I— did I do something? Say something? I was hoping taking you out for dinner and pampering you a bit might make up for whatever it was, but…” He peers up at Sherlock searchingly. “What do you mean by ‘I don't _have_ to’?”

“Nothing's the matter,” Sherlock replies peevishly, his resolve slowly crumbling away beneath the warmth of John's palm against his skin and the gentle stroke of a thumb over the delicate skin of his hipbone. Such a small touch shouldn't be so unbearably arousing. _Why must the dratted man make this more difficult than it already is?_ “I just mean… you needn't— “ he huffs in embarrassment, “I realize that I'm growing quite unappealingly rotund. My research indicates that it’s common for sires to feel an instinctual drive to repeatedly copulate with a gravid Omega in an effort to keep them from straying, and to ensure the child carries only their genetic material, but I’m hardly about to seek out another Alpha or Beta, so you needn’t feel obligated to—“

“Hang on a tic,” John interrupts, the crease between his eyebrows growing deeper. “I thought maybe you were getting too uncomfortable, or I’d done something to get on your wick— but you think you're getting _fat?_ And that I feel _obligated_ to shag you?”

A hot blush stains Sherlock’s cheeks pink. “Well that's a rather blunt way of putting it, but…”

John laughs and the sound cuts through Sherlock like a knife. He flinches and closes his eyes against the sting.

“Oh my god, you ridiculous creature,” John's calloused hands cup his face and drag it downward, where chapped lips are waiting to press against his insistently. After a moment he pulls back, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls as he peppers lingering kisses along edge of his jaw and down the length of his neck. “I don’t think I _have_ to shag you. I _want_ to shag you— a lot. And more importantly, you’re absolutely not getting _fat._ You're growing our baby.” His hands smooth reverently over the hard mound of Sherlock’s stomach and his eyes darken as his pupils dilate. The air in the room seems to transform; growing syrupy thick with arousal, and Sherlock shivers beneath his palms. “ _I_ did this. And it might be terribly, stereotypically Alpha of me, but _god—_ it's very, very sexy.”

 _“Oh,”_ Sherlock replies dumbly, all higher thought evaporating in the heat of John’s gaze. He hadn't thought… It had never even _occurred_ to him that John might feel that way. Not put off by, or even merely tolerant of his present state, but _aroused_ by the physical evidence of his own virility.

“Yeah— _oh,”_ John offers a wolfish grin, then tips him back onto the mattress with a gentle push. “So unless you've got any other objections, I think we should get you out of these pesky clothes, hm?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees more than a touch breathlessly, helpfully squirming out of his pyjama bottoms atop the duvet. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”

“Mm,” John hums in approval at the discovery that Sherlock hasn’t any pants underneath his bottoms. He runs his palms appreciatively up Sherlock bare thighs, stooping to press an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin before clambering up on the bed. “Smarter than I look.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculous wait on this one folks. I took a bit of an unexpected hiatus there for various reasons (including the cardinal sin of getting distracted by writing something new). Thank you all so much for all the lovely comments and kudos and for subscribing despite it appearing I'd abandoned this— they definitely made me push through to try and finish this off despite everything. If I never replied to your comment, my apologies! Each and every one of them are deeply appreciated, despite my less than stellar response skills... I just get a bit overwhelmed (nottoolateforthegame, if you're reading this-- your flood of comments was an absolute treat!). I was trying to hold out on posting this chapter until I was finished the final one as well to avoid any more big gaps, but I'd like to get this up to motivate myself to wrap things up. Like I mentioned, it's unbetaed, so please do let me know if you notice any glaring errors! If you’d rather message me privately about them, or want to prod me toward the finish line if I’m lagging again on the final chapter, you can find me on [tumblr!](https://manic-moose.tumblr.com) (I don't have anon on, because I find it's an abuse-magnet, but please don't feel shy— I'm the one sat here posting ABO fic for the whole world to read after all!)


	6. Chapter 6

In an effort to ease the incessant ache that’s been radiating through his lower back all morning, Sherlock paces the sidewalk as he impatiently awaits Mycroft’s arrival. If _he_ could make time to attend the appointment at the family barrister’s with Mycroft, the very least his infuriating brother could do in turn is actually show up on time. As he turns to begin his fourth lap of the street, he spots the black town car pulling up alongside the kerb ahead. He picks up his pace, covering the distance as quickly as possible with a stride that’s mortifyingly begun to take on an undeniable hint of _waddle._ The ninth month of pregnancy has proven to be particularly trying, and he’s well and truly ready to be _done_.

“Finally,” he complains with an aggrieved huff as he settles onto the leather bench seat across from his brother. “You’d think that three weeks in Germany would have improved your punctuality, not made it worse.”

“I do apologize; my meeting ran over,” Mycroft sighs long-suffering, closes the folder in his hands and sets it aside, then looks up and starts. While he’d most assuredly kept up his usual surveillance of Sherlock during his absence, it’s apparent that the grainy CCTV footage hadn’t quite translated the extent of the changes in Sherlock’s form. The child has grown exponentially in the past few weeks, as evidenced by Sherlock’s now prodigiously swollen middle.

”Well,” Mycroft raises his eyebrows, “you’re looking positively _gravid_.”

“Yes, well, that is generally how pregnancy works,” Sherlock snipes in reply, self-consciously tugging the edges of his coat together over his bump. “Don’t worry — you can go back to being the fat one soon enough. ”

“Still your usual charming self, I see,” Mycroft sneers, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve his mobile and return his attention to whatever political crisis is currently brewing sight unseen. Sherlock pulls his own mobile from his coat to entertain himself with as they travel in silence. A text alert pops up and he sighs.

“We need to stop by the chemists as well.”

“Oh?” Mycroft glances up, “no cause for concern I hope?”

“It seems that pregnancy can have rather unfavourable effects upon the bladder,” Sherlock wrinkles his nose in annoyance. “It’s common; or so I'm told. They’re holding a prescription for me.”

“Mm,” Mycroft lowers his gaze back to his phone and hums with polite disinterest, saving Sherlock from further embarrassment. Sherlock squirms in his seat, loathe to disrupt the polite fiction of his independence.

“I need you to come in with me.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I just — Oh bloody hell, I don't _care_ — I could argue with them until I get my way, but I simply do not have time to deal with it at the moment.”

“Deal with what?” Mycroft blinks, perplexed. He sets his phone aside and takes up his umbrella from where it’s leant between his knees, giving it a leisurely twirl as he awaits Sherlock’s explanation. Sherlock huffs unhappily, shifting in his seat and fiddling with his phone in agitation.

“Ever since _this,_ ” he gestures at the swell of his belly, “became obvious, it's become utterly tedious going anywhere, or trying to _do_ anything without an Alpha. Just because I'm unbonded, not incapable! Being treated like a wayward teenager who neglected to use a condom, instead of a fully grown adult is growing inconceivably tiresome.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, is that not precisely what happened?” Mycroft simpers, folding his hands over his umbrella handle and leaning forward to rest his chin on them. He beams like the miserable fiend that he is when Sherlock glowers thunderously in response. His mobile buzzes on the seat next to him and he rolls his eyes, plucking it from the leather to grimace at the screen.

“We can stop along on our way back to Baker Street,” he offers, tapping out a response to whatever message has come through with a frown as he sits back.

“Actually, they’re expecting me at the Yard.”

“Whatever for?” Mycroft questions incredulously. “Surely Detective Inspector Lestrade isn’t allowing you to traipse about crime scenes in your condition.”

“I’m consulting,” Sherlock clips. “On a case. Surely you don’t expect my brain to have ceased to function simply because I’m expecting.”

“No,” Mycroft allows. “But surely you could find a more… appropriate pursuit to occupy yourself with. You'll hardly be able to keep dashing about after criminals once the child arrives, after all.”

“Not for the first few months, certainly.” Sherlock frowns. “But after that, why not?”

“Why not? Precisely what are you planning to do; charge _John_ with its care while you gallivant around London?”

“Shockingly, there is a revolutionary new concept know as _childcare_. But, in instances when I don’t require his assistance, yes, quite likely — I can hardly think of someone more suited to the job.”

“Ah,” Mycroft arches a brow, “I suppose I should have guessed as much. It does make sense now, why you dragged your feet for as long as you did about informing Mummy. Rather remiss of me not to have realized it before.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock draws himself as upright as possible, “what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Well, it must have been dreadfully embarrassing for you to admit its parentage. He's hardly much of an Alpha, now is he?” Mycroft elaborates flippantly as he types something into his phone one-handed. Sherlock stares, eyes growing flinty as anger builds to a steady roil inside him while Mycroft continues on obliviously. “Always scurrying around after you, allowing your every ridiculous whim. And now he’ll be staying home to rear your infant? I do say, Dr. Watson would have been far better suited to Omegahood, wou—”

“Pull over.” Sherlock snaps, and Mycroft looks up from his phone in bewilderment.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said,” Sherlock bites out, “ _Pull. Over._ ”

“Why on _earth_ would I do that?”

“Despite your original disapproval of the situation, I hardly think that you would like to risk any harm coming to your future heir now that you’ve acclimatized to the idea. And that will be regrettably unavoidable if I am forced to depart from the vehicle whilst it’s still moving. So, in short; _Pull. Over_.”

Mycroft gapes at him for a moment.

“The chemists,” Mycroft starts, but Sherlock heads him off.

“Well, now that my afternoon has suddenly opened up, I’ve plenty of time to deal with that.”

 _“Sherlock,_ be reasonable. Clearly the hormones have made you even more fractious than usual.”

Sherlock tenses his jaw and reaches up to grasp the door handle. Mycroft throws up a staying hand and quickly taps his umbrella twice against the floor of the car. The moment the car glides to a stop alongside the kerb, Sherlock wrenches the lever and immediately throws the door open.

“I thought as much,” he states, vaulting out onto the sidewalk with a swoop of his coat, anger lending him entirely more grace than should be reasonably possible at this point in his pregnancy. He pauses, gripping the door to lean back in for a moment. “Do avoid contacting me for the foreseeable future Mycroft,” he fairly snarls, then heaves himself backward and slams the door.

 

* * *

 

As predicted, the trip to the chemists is exasperating in the extreme, but with his ire preemptively stoked, delivering a thorough tongue-lashing serves more as a release than a chore. Regardless, the endeavour leaves him feeling drained, and by the time he finally arrives at New Scotland Yard the idea of installing himself in one of the plush conference room chairs for the rest of the afternoon is unquestionably inviting. Though he’d sooner gnaw his own hand off than admit as much to Mycroft, the creep of exhaustion _has_ been insidious of late; growing more and more undeniable with every passing day and each additional centimeter added to his waistline. Last month, despite his infamous stubbornness, he’d even been grudgingly forced to admit he actually _couldn’t_ keep up with the work anymore.

Lestrade’s idea for him to consult in a more “traditional” manner — strictly brain-power — on casefiles at the Yard has proven to be an unexpectedly welcome interim arrangement.

John's already waiting when he reaches the third floor meeting room that Lestrade has commandeered for them, sifting through a veritable mountain of evidence for to their latest case, while cheerfully arguing with the DI about some bloke named Gary Owen — possibly a rugby player of some sort from the sounds of it. Sherlock stops in the doorway to catch his breath (another humiliating recent development that's accompanied Hamish's growth), and discreetly knead at his back where the persistent twinge still plagues him. The last thing he needs is John fretting over another simple, if unpleasant, episode of Braxton Hicks.

John notices him after a few moments and brightens, a grin spreading across his face like the sun appearing from behind a cloud. The sight sets Sherlock’s heart fluttering pleasantly in his chest. How could anyone find John less than perfect? In all his life, he’s never known another Alpha so unpresuming, who’s always treated him equally, without question. The very _idea_ that Mycroft would think Sherlock should feel any embarrassment to be carrying John's child sends a fresh wave of rage inside him. He pushes it down and lets the corners of his mouth curl upward in an answering smile as John rounds the table to help him out of his coat.

“Hey you,” John murmurs, pushing up onto his toes to brush their lips together in a warm kiss hello. “And you,” he adds with a glance downward to where he's braced a gentle palm against Sherlock’s belly.

“The two of you are downright nauseating, you know that, right?” Lestrade cuts in, grinning widely as he unwraps a sausage roll and bites into it. “If it wasn't for the fact it won me 200 quid in the office pool, I'd hardly be able to stand it.”

“I could prescribe you some maxolon for that, mate,” John jokes cheekily in reply and Lestrade throws back his head and laughs.

“Cheers.”

“How did things go with Mycroft?” John asks as Sherlock installs himself next to Lestrade at the table, carefully levering himself down into the chair with the DI’s steadying hand at his elbow.

“Uneventful,” he lies. He looks to Lestrade in an effort to divert the conversation. “Is this everything for the Croftdown Road case?”

“It is,” Lestrade confirms, digging into the Gregg's takeaway bag on the table in front of him. He pulls out another sausage roll and holds it out to Sherlock, who wrinkles his nose.

“I've eaten.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade levels an unimpressed look at him, thrusting the roll at him again. “it's half twelve. Eat up.”

Sherlock looks across the table to John, who offers an expectant lift of his brows.

“Don’t expect me to help — I was the one who brought it for you. Greg was just closer to the bag.”

“Fine,” he concedes with an extravagant eye-roll, and accepts both it and the bottle of water that follows immediately afterward. He unwraps the roll and grudgingly takes a bite before pulling a stack of papers toward himself with his free hand.

“Now let’s see just what our elusive Mr. Goldritch has been up to.”

 

* * *

 

He's deeply immersed in the the printed record of several months worth of text messages between the chief suspect and his erstwhile mistress, when the ache in his lower back reveals itself to be something significantly _more._

“Oh.”

“Oh?” John looks up from his stack of files. “Oh, what? Did you find something?”

“John, I— ” Sherlock winces and gasps as the pain grips him, much more pronounced now that he’s allowing himself to _feel_ it.

“Sherlock?”

“I think that we may need to go to the hospital.”

“Sorry?” John blinks dazedly while Lestrade chokes on the water he's chosen an inopportune moment to sip.

“What?!” Lestrade coughs harshly and purples, eyes widening in panic.

“I do believe that my water just broke,” Sherlock grimaces, shifting uncomfortably in the spreading wetness beneath his backside.

“Your…” John pauses as Sherlock flails out and clutches at his hand, squeezing tightly as another contraction grips him. John's face rearranges itself into its familiar, steady doctor’s demeanor. “How long have you been having contractions?”

“A few… hours?” Sherlock grits out.

“Hours?!” Lestrade exclaims, jumping up from his seat. “Christ!”

“When you say a few hours, what do you mean by that?” John asks calmly as he eases his fingers out from Sherlock’s grip and rises from his chair. He cuts around the table and kneels at Sherlock’s side before taking his hand again. “And how long and how far apart are they?”

“Since I woke up,” Sherlock admits sheepishly, rubbing a hand soothingly over his belly. “And… I don’t know. I was ignoring them — I thought they were just Braxton Hicks again.”

“Okay,” John nods, twisting his wrist to look at his watch. “That last one was probably about a minute. I want you to tell me as soon as the next one starts.”

He doesn’t have to wait long; the next contraction gripping Sherlock’s muscles within a handful of minutes. Once it’s over, John gives his hand a comforting squeeze and tips his head up to grin at him.

“Looks like we’re having a baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE. MORE. TO. GO!
> 
> Don't fret! I won't be leaving you all waiting long this time— the second part is finished and in the hands of my lovely beta. As soon as she gives it her stamp of approval, up it goes! These final two chapters are a little shorter than the rest have been, but I decided to break up the one big chapter I had for the narrative flow and posting speed! (And so that I can fit one last John interlude into that flow if I can get to it!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This little adventure comes to a close!

The trip to the hospital is markedly quicker by panda car, lights flashing despite John’s assurance that there’s really no need — that it’s a perfectly normal stage of labour at which to depart for the hospital, dramatic realization or no. Sherlock doesn’t feel entirely convinced, given the truly startling amount of discomfort.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one panicking?” Lestrade asks, glancing back at John incredulously in the rearview mirror. “I was a wreck when my first was born.”

“I’m a doctor,” John laughs, stroking Sherlock's hand reassuringly all the while. “He hasn’t been shot, he's just having a baby. Nothing to panic about.”

And for all intents and purposes it would appear John is right. Checking in at the front desk is a simple procedure, and none of the staff seem at all fussed by their arrival or any of the medical details that John cheerfully imparts. Their and John's air of calm competence is remarkably reassuring— despite the discomfort, he finds himself relaxing as they make their way upstairs to the ward. He doesn't even pitch much of a fit when they make him change into the offensive monstrosity they try to pass off as a gown.

Not that _everyone_ remains unfussed. To say that one of their nurses is a touch unfriendly would be an understatement.

“She seems… a bit unimpressed with us, doesn’t she,” John observes with a sidelong glance at the woman as she departs their suite, having spent the last quarter hour banging about with a disapproving glower.

“Well, we _are_ an unbonded couple. Terribly scandalous, didn’t you know.”

“I thought you said that everyone would assume I'm just Mycroft’s stud Alpha,” John teases.

“Yes, well; a business-like arrangement would be perhaps a bit more believable if you weren't sat here, holding my hand and stroking my hair,” Sherlock muses with a fond smile.

“Oh,” John's hand stiffens over his. “Did you want me to stop?”

Sherlock levels an exasperated look at the Alpha, as though he’d just suggested going for a nude jog through the halls.

“Of course not. Don't be ridiculous,” he dismisses the wildly unacceptable suggestion. “I'm in the middle of giving birth to our child, and I’m not above admitting that it’s a— “ Another contraction hits, surging through his body like a wave, and he pauses to pant through it. He crushes John’s fingers with his own, only letting up as it retreats. “Deeply uncomfortable experience,” he continues as he catches his breath. “So, I would much prefer you carry on exactly as your doing. I don't give a rat’s arse what she thinks.”

John chuckles warmly and offers him another ice chip. Sherlock opens his mouth and accepts it gratefully, just as their sour-faced nurse bustles back into the room.

“We’re going to have to insist that you leave sir,” she announces as she grasps John’s arm just above the elbow, and moves to direct him toward the door. John digs his heels in and draws himself up to his full height.

“Excuse me?”

“There was clearly some misunderstanding at the admissions desk,” she purses her lips reproachfully, “and they mistook you for Mr. Holmes’ Alpha Maritus. We appreciate you seeing him here, but as you aren’t of any relation, you’ll have to wait out to the visitors lounge with other friends of the family. We’ve contacted his Alpha Familiae, and he’s on his way.”

 _“Friends?”_ John blusters, “I’m not his _friend_ … Well, I _am_ , but I’m — ”

“He’s the _father_ you nitwit,” Sherlock chimes in acerbically. “Which you can obviously tell given the context of the situation and our physical contact with one another. No unbonded Alpha in their right mind would dare touch a labouring Omega in such a manner if they were just _friends_. You’re just being willfully ignorant because you disapprove.”

She puffs up indignantly and opens her mouth to reply, but he rounds her off; launching into a rapid-fire deduction before she can get so much as a syllable out.

“You're especially bothered because you've just discovered that your Alpha husband is having an affair with a younger male Omega, and we put you in mind of them. You'd be fine with him working off some of his sexual needs on the side— particularly his more _adventurous_ appetites— but you suspect that it’s much more than just a fling. He always wanted children and you never cared for them, so you’re worried he's going to leave you to start a family with his young lover.” He doubles over to clutch at his middle when another labour pain comes on. “You’re right by the way,” he adds between pants. “He is.”

“Well, I never!” She sputters, drawing herself rigidly upright. “Father or no, he’s _not_ your Alpha, and he hasn’t any right to remain in the room. You’ve only yourselves to blame for your… _irregular_ circumstances!”

“Well, if John isn’t allowed to stay than I won’t either,” Sherlock huffs, attempting to lever himself up from the mattress.

“Sherlock,” John scolds, staying him with a gentle touch to his forearm. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere in this state. I’m sure there’s just a bit of a misunderstanding. We’ll get this sorted and— “

“There’s no misunderstanding,” the nurse interrupts waspishly. “Mr. Watson, you need to leave immediately. And _you_ ,” she presses a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder to push him back down against the bed, “are not going anywhere. Until your Alpha arrives, you are under the guardianship of the NHS.”

As the pressure unbalances Sherlock and he drops back against the mattress with a surprised puff of air, John growls and takes a step forward.

“Oh for goodness sake,” a exasperated voice joins in from the doorway. “Let the man stay.”

Everyone’s heads swivel to the doorway, where Mycroft stands framed in the light from the hall looking faintly aggrieved.

“Mr. Holmes!” The nurse brightens at his arrival. ”As I was just explaining to your Omega dependens, Mr. Watson isn’t permitted to stay. Only one non-professional support person is allowed in the delivery room, and now that you’ve arri— ”

“Well, then there’s no problem,” Mycroft speaks over her, “as _I_ certainly don’t have any intention to remaining to witness _that_.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste and brushes a patch of invisible lint from his sleeve. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Sir!” The nurse goggles at him, her voice dropping into a scandalized register. “But he’s— they’re _unbonded_. It's _quite_ improper!“

“Yes well, it was really quite improper when they _conceived_ the child as well, but that certainly didn’t make any difference, now did it?” He looks pointedly to his brother’s swollen midsection and the nurse blushes scarlet.

“Mr. Holmes! I really must insist th— ”

“I should think you really mustn’t insist on _anything_ , unless you don’t particularly value your position,” Mycroft interjects icily. “I am Sherlock’s Alpha Familiae, and as such, I have the authority to make any and all decisions on his behalf in this matter. And I authorize _Doctor_ Watson to remain here with him in my stead. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” she bows her head submissively. “Very clear.”

“Good. Now, I'd like a few moments with my brother, if you will.” He dismisses her, and she scurries from the room, eyes firmly clapped to the titles while he crosses over to stand at Sherlock’s beside. “Well brother mine, I hadn't thought that my days as the svelte one would be quite so limited. I hope the recent ban on my presence doesn’t extend to these circumstances?”

“No,” Sherlock concedes with a chuckle that quickly devolves into a grunt as pain narrows his vision once more. He clamps down on John's fingers again, in an effort to conceal the show of weakness as much as possible in front of his brother. “Thank you,” he adds, a touch breathlessly.

“Yes, well.” Mycroft curls his fingers around the bed-rail and cuts his gaze away uncomfortably. It puts Sherlock in mind of when he woke up in the hospital after his first overdose, to find Mycroft perched stiffly at his bedside. Granted, this is a significantly more positive occurence, but nevertheless— their own humanness has never been something they've been able to share comfortably between them. Mycroft clears his throat. “I imagine you’d prefer John’s presence during the event nearly as much as I’d prefer not to bear witness to it.”

Sherlock laughs this time, full-bodied and unselfconscious; he knows an olive branch when he sees one.

“Nearly as much, yes.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirks up in a genuine smile, the likes of which Sherlock hasn't seen in years.

“Well then, I'll leave you to it.” He pats the bed rail once and gives a curt nod. Then he turns sharply on heel, and leaves the room without a backward glance.

“Well that was… surreal.” John marvels next to him.

“Mmm. Despite appearances — and his best efforts — Mycroft is still very much so human. And a decent brother.” Sherlock replies, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment as he tries to relax his body in anticipation of the next contraction. A stray thought drifts across his mind, and they snap open again. “Don't you dare tell him I said that. The nitrous oxide has clearly taking effect.”

“You haven’t had any,” John points out with a snort of laughter.

“A fact I'll deny to my last.”

“I'll be right back, love.” John murmurs with a small squeeze of his hand, and gets up. Sherlock nods settles back against the pillows, watching with slitted eyes as John disappears through the doorway and their newly cowed nurse slinks back in.

He frowns at the large gas canister against the wall thoughtfully as his muscles begin cramp up again. Now, before he gets rid of her, surely _actually_ getting his hands on the nitrous oxide shouldn't be terribly difficult.

 

* * *

 

He does indeed get his hands on it in the end, though the means rather outweighs the end. As the hours creep by, everything slowly devolves into a blur of pain and exhaustion. He’s subjected to examination after examination, and what begin as cheery check-ins slowly morph into tense affairs that leave their doctor and nurses frowning and concerned. He asks endless questions at the start, but by the next day, it becomes no different than anything else; just something to lie back and endure. He’s never felt so bone _tired_ in all his life. The only thing keeping him alert is pain and adrenaline from the rising sense of dread that’s beginning to set in.

As the last of his energy stores are sapped, it’s all he can do to just _breathe_ as the contractions tear through him. Eventually though, the exhaustion becomes too much, and he finds himself drifting off to sleep.

He wakes up again to John gently shaking him awake.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm?” He mumbles, before starting awake fully as his brain catches up and he remembers just where he is. He catches sight of the nurse unpacking a shaving kit on the bedside table and frowns. “What’s going on?”

“She just needs to get you ready for surgery, love.”

“Surgery?” He flounders, struggling to push himself up to sitting. “I’m not going for surgery.”

The nurse and John exchange a look and John rubs at the back of his neck.

“Can we have a moment alone?” The nurse nods and quietly absents herself, easing the door shut behind her as she leaves. “Look Sherlock, I won’t sugar-coat things for you. The doctor met with Mycroft and I while you were sleeping— ”

“Oh,” Sherlock waspishly interjects, “how kind of you all to include me.”

“Don’t be like that— you were just finally resting, or else I would have insisted you be included.” John sighs heavily. ”Things aren’t going great—”

“So I’ve noticed.”

John levels a look at him, but continues on unperturbed.

“Your water broke more than a day and a half ago, and you’re still nowhere near fully dilated. It’s time to face the truth— he’s not coming the way you wanted him to, love.”

“If this is some sort of ill-conceived to save me from further discomfort,” Sherlock fists his hands in his blanket and sets his jaw. “I’m no wilting flower. I’m quite capable of seeing this through. I’m fine— it’s fine.”

“No, it’s _not_ fine! You’re completely exhausted, and that’s only going to get worse. And when things go on this long, all sorts of complications can start to come in to play, not the least of which is infection. They’ve been monitoring your vitals and the baby for any distress, and your temperature has started creeping up.” John reaches out to grasp his hand. “I know you’ve been fussed about the idea of surgery, but unless you want to put your life — and his — in danger, we’re going to have to go ahead with this.”

Sherlock gnaws his lip and clutches at John's fingers steadyingly. John stares back calmly, ever Sherlock’s rock, patiently waiting as he disentangles fact from fear in his mind. After a few moments Sherlock takes a deep breath and relaxes his grip.

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Hamish Alfie Holmes finally makes his way into the world at 4:17 am, after 39 hours of labour and one emergency cesarean, and wastes no time whatsoever loudly notifying the world of his displeasure over the harrowing ordeal.

“Oh,” Sherlock marvels as the nurse lifts the squalling infant over the surgical divider and onto his chest. Midnight blue eyes peer up at him from a wizened little scrunch of a face, unfocused and slightly cross-eyed, and instantly steal his breath away. His hands rise up instinctively to clasp the tiny body close to his own, and he chokes slightly on the sudden tears that spring up in his eyes and tighten his throat. “Hello.”

The baby quiets as John’s hands join Sherlock’s, blanketing the expanse of his tiny back, and he snuffles down contentedly against Sherlock’s skin. John leans in close over Sherlock’s shoulder as they rub his little limbs gently, murmuring to him in calming tones and breathing in lungfuls of his delicate newborn scent. After a handful of minutes, John is invited to the other side of the divider to cut the cord, and the moment of quiet bonding passes. Hamish lets out an unholy screech of protest when the nurse bundles him away for a more thorough check-over and cleaning, and his fathers share an exhausted laugh over his indignant expression.

“Sounds like he takes after you, love,” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear with a giggle.

“Nonsense, John,” Sherlock disagrees with a sniff, turning his head to rest his forehead against the Alpha's. “That’s precisely the same sound you made the time you discovered the bisected pig carcass in the shower.”

 

* * *

 

“Are we still decided on the name then, now that you've had some time with him?” John asks two hours later as he steps back into their room, pushing the door shut behind him with his heel to block out the light from the hall. He sets two steaming cups of tea down on the side table, and perches on the edge of the mattress, gently smoothing Sherlock’s sweat-matted curls with with one hand, and their son’s downy cloud of dark fuzz with the other.

Sherlock doesn’t look up, positively transfixed by the tiny infant cradled in his arms, but he leans into the touch nonetheless. The baby squirms inside his swaddling blanket as John slips a diminutive curl around the tip of his pinky finger, admiring the fluffy miniature of Sherlock’s own coif. Despite his somewhat squashed appearance, he's the spitting image of his Omega father; though there’s a hint of John about his eyes and dainty chin that makes Sherlock’s heart clench tenderly.

As if terribly bored with his fathers’ attention the little one scrunches his face and yawns widely before settling in to sleep, and they both smile in exuberant awe.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock nods tiredly. “He’s most definitely a Hamish.”

“Is he now?”

"Well, look at him— going to sleep at _this_ hour? Clearly he has more in common with a ninety year old from Edinburgh than one would expect.”

“Oh yes, I see the resemblance now. Just like Grandad when he used to doze off in his easy chair after coming back from the pub. It was all the hair that threw me off.” John taps his chin thoughtfully, and Sherlock snorts in amusement. “Speaking of sleep,” he adds, “I think that you need be getting some yourself. Before this one wakes up again and starts demanding his breakfast.”

“Mm, soon,” Sherlock nods, adjusting his hold on Hamish to free up one hand. “He’s absolutely perfect John,” he announces decisively, carefully brushing a fingertip along the delicate arch of one tiny eyebrow.

“The most perfect infant in the whole of human history,” John agrees immediately, nodding without hesitation as wraps an arm around his little family and cuddles them close. “Scientific fact, that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's a wrap folks! Thank you all for all the encouragement; for holding out on my irregular and widely spaced posting schedule, for all the kudos and subscriptions, and most of all the incredibly kind comments! You're all gems— each and every one of you. I'll be playing catch-up on comments as soon as I hit 'post'. An extra special thanks to Miss_Communication for appearing out the the blue to make my life easier and my writing better by being such a stellar beta. 
> 
> I've been working on two new unrelated works; a magical realism AU and a 50's-era 'Tell it to the Bees' adaptation (the cardinal sin of writers: getting distracted by new ideas!) which I'm hoping to begin posting soon. I've also sketched out a bit of a post-Reichenbach installment for this series, but I'm undecided at the moment if I want to go there. This seemed like a lovely place to end for the time being— especially for those of you who prefer to have skip that whole angst-ridden situation. But let me know in the comments what you think! (Should we just let the happy family be?) I may also put up the one last John interlude I have in drafts, and maaaybe a separate little bonding epilogue, depending on the Reichenbach verdict. 
> 
> In any case, if you're interested in that or any of my other upcoming work, please feel free to subscribe to my account or to the series itself— but no pressure! It's been an absolute pleasure writing for you all. Hopefully I'll see you around again soon!


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